


the winter after

by shadesoflondon



Category: The Grisha Trilogy - Leigh Bardugo
Genre: (See: Ultraviolence by LDR), Alina Matures, Alina Starkov is Still a Sun Summoner, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Ambitious Author, Angst, Doing My Best To Make Them TRUE Equals While Keeping Them True To Themselves, Enemies as lovers, Eventual Ice Court, Eventual Ketterdam, Eventual Mutual Understanding, Eventual Nina Zenik, Eventual sexy times, Exploration of Sainthood, F/M, Fighting, Forced Marriage, Heavy Themes, King Aleksander - Freeform, Loss; Grief; Trauma, No Mal!, Not a Redemption Arc, Politics, Post-R&R, Power Imbalance, Queen!Alina, Ravkan Empire, Secrets & Lies, Slow Burn, Spoiler: Aleks Is a Fucking Liar, Strategy & Tactics, TW in Notes (if needed), The Darkling in All of His Complicated and Emotionally Unavailable Glory, Unhealthy Coping Mechanisms, War & Revolution, complicated relationship, jurda parem, unhealthy relationship
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-06-24
Updated: 2020-05-02
Packaged: 2020-05-18 19:57:24
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 11
Words: 32,915
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19341538
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/shadesoflondon/pseuds/shadesoflondon
Summary: “I’m like your little pet,” I said once, when they wouldn’t stop glancing at me. “Have you fed me? Have you watered me? I bet they wonder.”There was darkness in his voice when he responded, and it rushed through his fingers and into mine as our hands brushed together. “Not for long, Alina.” He dipped his head down to my ear, dipped his volume to match. “That I can promise.”»»————-　♔　————-««The winter after the Darkling is defeated, Alina and Mal decide to stay in a cabin before officially settling down. After a fight, Alina is left to live alone. It's not too long before shadows start to follow her.We must all face our demons sooner or later.





	1. one

**Author's Note:**

> Friendly reminder that any TW will be placed in the chapter notes. In general you can expect violence (both magical and by guns, blades, etc) and the Darkling’s typical assholery, neither of which will have a TW unless it’s just *that* bad. The Darkling is no good guy, after all. Now that the story is finally kicking off, I'm going to expand this by saying that Alina is going to go through some big emotional overhauls. The way she copes and the way her relationship with the Darkling develops is not pretending to be healthy, but because we are in her head, certain actions may seem justified. Just take this as a big fat Dead Dove: Do Not Eat. For emotional development/manipulation, ofc. 
> 
> Happy trails...

**[{PART ONE}]**

* * *

_“Do you think I could have come to you again and again, if you had been less alone?_   
_You called me and I answered.”_

_-Ruin and Rising_

* * *

I had been feeling it for weeks now. A prickle on the back of my neck, a shadow a step out of place, a noise when all should be silent. I wasn’t a paranoid girl, but it slowly started to wear on me. Ravka was months into its bone-chilling winter, and I was left alone in the middle of a wooded forest.

Mal and I decided to take a break a few months prior. So it was me, alone with a cabin, trekking around in the snow and collecting firewood. When the sun slipped behind the trees, I settled by my small fireplace and warmed my throat with kvas. For every meal it was biscuits and jerky and liquor.

The ritual was almost the same every day, but I didn’t hate it. It was a welcome change to the constant bustle of war camps and the annoying pomp of Ravka court. Now that my role as sun summoner was done, I had nothing but time on my hands. And it was mine. _Mine._

That was an issue that Mal and I had⎯ I wasn’t allowed to be me. Have my own time. He was constantly worried about my habits, and would hesitate to let me do even the smallest of tasks on my own. That was another issue: he wouldn’t _let_ me do things. So when we couldn’t work it out, we split, and agreed that one day, we’d try again.

He left this past autumn, with a bag in one hand and the reigns of our horse in another. I was sad to see him go. But with him, the past felt like a vise around my neck. It was choking me, and I needed to move on. That didn’t mean it didn’t hurt. Sometimes it hurt so much that the pain took over completely.

I stared into the fire and sloshed the remains of my kvas _._  I craved another glass of the bitter drink, but my supply was not infinite, and it would be some time before I felt comfortable enough to leave for the closest market. Winter in Ravka was nearly as bad as winter in Fjerda, and I did not want to be snowed out of my own home.

I downed the dregs, and felt that familiar prickle along the hairs of my neck. I stilled. It was not _him_ ⎯I knew that much⎯but still I turned to survey the large room that was my home. In one corner rested my bed, and beside it my nightstand. A desk and bookshelves lined the opposite wall, filled with tomes and candles gifted to me by the newest _tsar_ of Ravka. Nothing moved but the orange flickering of firelight. Shrugging it off, I returned to watching the flames dance.

And so it goes. For days, it was variations of the same thing. I would get an odd feeling, survey the area, and find nothing. Nikolai once told me about times when he was alone and imagined people calling for him. I supposed this was no different. Isolation did weird things to people, and I was very, very isolated.

Maybe that was why I saw it.

A few mornings afterward, I was pulling a sled of fallen branches along with me into the forest. From behind, I heard a crunch in the snow. It was quiet enough to ignore. Sounds were common in the woods. But something in my gut felt off, and after a moment of hesitation, I turned to see what the disruption was. Black flashed across the white landscape, there and gone in a blink. I didn’t move for a long second, debating possible causes of the small shadow, none of which made sense. Forcing my adrenaline down, I dropped the handle of the sled and approached the spot it appeared. I was half convinced it was a rabbit until I bent to inspect the snow. There were no tracks. Cursing under my breath, I returned to the sled and pushed what had happened to the back of my mind. Fear and hysteria were not nice things to succumb to when alone, and I was not going to let myself fall into that trap.

Sitting at the fire that night, I figured that the unnerving experiences I had were some sort of subconscious joke. I left Os Alta a year ago, and still I thought of the boy with black hair. I didn’t like to think of his name⎯ any of his names⎯ because I wasn’t fond of the feelings they brought. Out here in the wild cold, I’d hoped I could face those demons. But emotions were more complicated than that, and if I let my mind dwell too long on the past, my anger would dissolve into something less merciful.

I filed the Darkling away. The shadows and sounds and other tricks that my head played on me went into that cabinet too, and pushed out of reach.

⎯⎯⎯

A week passed. Every so often, shadows flickered in the corners of my vision, and I worked my hardest to ignore them.

But this was different.

I started. “What the hell?”

A chill like no other spread up my back. It felt like someone pressed their fingers to the base of my spine and ran them upward to my neck. The pressure wasn’t gentle, and forgetting the task at hand, I jumped and pulled a knife from my belt. I was outside again, collecting wood. The squirrel I caught bumped against my leg as I did a quick whirl.

_“What do you want?”_  I growled. But nothing answered. Completely on edge, I peered through the snowy foliage. There was no sound except my breathing. I needed to close my eyes and take a deep breath, but I was too afraid of what might creep up on me if I let my guard down.

That night I double checked my lock. Before I crawled into bed, I made sure to triple check.

⎯⎯⎯

The next day, my _nichevo’ya_ bite gave the smallest twinge.

I did not like to think about what that meant.

⎯⎯⎯

At night, silver eyes and pale hands plagued my dreams. During the day, moving shadows followed me as I hunted. The pain in my scar did not go away.

I was almost unsurprised the next morning.

Almost.


	2. two

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> asdfghjk i'm not the happiest with this chapter, but here it is!! we're just gonna dive right into it. big thank you to everyone who commented on the first chapter! those comments really speed up my writing process.

I was awoken by a knock on the door. Half convinced I was dreaming, I rolled back over and covered my face with a pillow. The sound didn’t go away. 

My limbs froze, and my eyes shot open. There was someone outside. Slowly, I removed the pillow from my face and sat up on the bed. Thankfully the cabin had no windows, so whoever was outside couldn’t see me. I crept slowly to my table and grabbed the closest hunting knife. Positioning myself beside the door, I waited to see if they would try to enter. The chances of them being a murderer probably weren’t high, but my self preservation instinct kicked in, and the adrenaline was overpowering my common sense. In the seconds that passed, my stomach felt too heavy and my swallow too loud. 

Another knock, slow and steady, sounded on the door. My scar thrummed. I figured it was the cold.

Blinking, I made myself think.

I could pretend no one was home. Since my fire was nothing but smoldering ash, the smoke was gone, and there would be no way to tell from the outside that anyone was here. But that brought another issue: they could break in. There would be no reason for them not to. The weather outside was freezing, and whoever was on the other side of the door was probably just looking for a place to seek shelter.

Upon that realization, I let myself breathe. Peeling myself from the wall, I stepped in front of the door and unlocked the chain lock. I hesitated. What if it was Mal? I didn’t know if I was prepared to see him again so soon. Hope flickered like a flame in my heart. The logical part of me couldn’t help but snort: we were over, after all. I started to pull the door open.

“Alina.”

I flinched. 

“No,” I said, fully prepared to close the door. But my limbs had locked, and I was frozen.

“No,” I repeated. “No, no, _nononono_.”

The Darkling stood on the opposite side of the threshold. His hair was longer and curling over his ears, and his usually clean shaven face was lined with the start of a five o’ clock shadow. A cocktail of shock, adrenaline, and fear went of like a shotgun in my chest, and I was aware enough of myself to recognize this as panic.

Yes, I was definitely panicking. The fight or flight instinct didn’t rush through my blood, it tore through it, leaving me stranded with indecision. I couldn’t run, could I? Where could I go? But saints, I wouldn’t _let him in_ , would I?

This wasn’t happening. He was dead, he was gone. I had killed him. 

He moved to step forward, and in an instant my knife was out and against his throat. His hands raised, and he regarded me through upturned lashes.

“What in the _hell_ are you doing here?” 

My hand shook. I focused on steadying it, and then steadying the waver in my voice. He looked no different than how he did when I last saw him, if only less injured. I was just dumbfounded by the fact that he was breathing.

And had found me.

“I would like to come in,” he offered quietly. His gaze was firm though, and for a moment I found us in another time and place entirely.

“Why?” My mind was moving too fast to process what was happening, and I couldn’t think past a few words. Part of me wanted to cry, and the other wanted to hit something. He cocked his head fractionally. The knife bit closer to his skin and I felt him still.

“It’s cold out here,” was all he said, voice smooth and slightly amused. At the sound, a deeper pang of fear spiked in my gut. It was followed by a wave of relief. Many things made sense now. I wasn’t crazy⎯ I had been sensing him. 

His stare tore from mine and took in the room behind us. “It's quiet,” he murmured. I knew that he realized I was alone. 

“Why are you here?”

“You.”

He looked back at me, snowflakes blowing into the cabin. The warmth was leaving fast. Even if I closed the door, he would find a way in. Fighting down my fear, I stepped back and gestured for him to enter. 

“Well obviously,” I bit out. “Don’t think about trying anything.”

He moved past me and into the room. Somehow, I managed to lock the door and build a fire. My fingers trembled, from shock or anger I couldn’t tell. Silently, he watched me, and I asked the question that had been weighing on me most. 

“How are you alive, after everything?”

I stood and brushed the bark from my hands.

“I am not so easily killed.”

“That’s a bullshit answer.”

“It’s not,” he said, his voice dipped in satisfaction. I rolled my eyes despite the tense air between us. Fear wouldn’t help me here, so I grappled for something else, anything else, and found anger. It would have to do.

In this dim cast of light, I could see the scars feathering his face. He stood beside the table by the fire and eyed me. For a moment, we were locked in a cold and careful silence. My palms itched to throttle him.

“Have you been messing with me?” I asked. He gave no response, only raised his eyebrows in an aggravating fashion. I stared at him, my gaze hard, weighing how much I should say. 

“I’ve been…” I paused, turning to face the hearth. He didn’t take his eyes off of me. “These past few weeks, I’ve been seeing things. Shadows. I’ve even felt them touch me a few times, but I didn’t really think it was you.” The silence between us pulled taught. Quieter, I added:

“I thought you were gone.”

As I spoke, the remainder of my dread fell away. I turned my head a little to gauge his reaction. His mouth was pulled in a self⎯satisfied smirk, something dangerous dancing in his eyes. 

“Ah.”

I blinked, my confusion apparent. 

“Have you sensed me in other ways?” he asked. My hand lifted to brush my scar, itchy and aching at our closeness. The movement didn’t go unnoticed. “Alina,” he said slowly, certainly; “If I didn’t know better, it appears you still have your power.”

My heart sputtered. “I⎯no,” I shook my head. When his smirk didn’t fade, I shook it again. “I tried to summon. I’ve tried. It doesn’t work. My power is empty⎯”

“How does that make you feel?” He asked, leaving the table. “Are you relieved that you still have your abilities?” In his voice was the fervor I remembered so well. He moved to tower over me, and I planted my feet firm.

“I told you, I don’t⎯” I cut myself off. “Are you toying with me?”

His hands found my shoulders. They trailed feather-light to my elbows, securing me in a possessive hold. The gentleness starkly contrasted the heat on his face. Alighting my nerves, he leaned forward, his voice dropping to a low rumble.

“Do you truly believe I would come all this way to toy with you?”

That made me pause. He watched my throat as I swallowed. 

“Yes,” I replied after a moment. 

His eyes tightened, annoyance obvious in the lines of his face. With us pressed so close together, I was again reminded of how much taller he was. I had to look nearly straight up to meet his gaze. The tension between us dialed up a notch when I did, and it neared boiling when I didn’t look away. Firelight reflected in the grey of his irises. Something about the steady crackling softened his face, making me feel at ease, even as his thumbs pressed into the bones in my elbows. Almost tauntingly, they began a stroking pattern.

My breath hitched. He took the opportunity to press onward.

“How do you think you sensed me?” I opened my mouth, but he spoke over me. “I felt your power, your light, and followed it here. Our connection still stands, Alina. You forget that our magic is greater than any other⎯it is not something that can simply be lost.”

My glance dropped to where his hands gripped me. I didn’t feel the call to his power like I would’ve as a Grisha. 

“You’re touching me,” I whispered. His eyes dropped to our arms as well. “I don’t feel anything.” 

He released me and took a step back. Canting his head, he gestured to my hands, and I could practically feel the challenge in the air.

“You said your power felt empty,” he said. “Don’t summon. Call the power back instead.”

In this moment, he felt very much like the teacher he was at the Little Palace. But things had changed so much since then. We were⎯and now will always be⎯at war for the upper hand. This wasn’t something I wanted to do, but it was necessary to protect those I loved.

I lifted my palms.

At first, I felt nothing. Stretching my net out as far as it would go, I called for the light. I pushed and pushed through the hole in my chest, through the empty place where magic once rested. Surges of power answered in turn. They came so fast that I nearly flinched, many and all at once. I didn’t know how far my search extended, but it must’ve been a long way considering the amount of feedback I was getting.

“Do you feel anything?” His gaze burned into me. I said nothing. The magic pooled like liquid gold in my chest; strong even without an amplifier. This was what I needed to do, wasn’t it? But I couldn’t. I didn’t _want_ the light. Conflict warred in my head⎯

“Summon,” he commanded.

“I can’t.” I shook my head. Making a show of it, I crinkled my forehead in mock concentration. After a moment, my hands fell to sides.

“Very well.” His voice was sharp glass. _Nichevo’ya_ melted from shadows along the wall, snipping and clicking like restless insects. They were just as I remembered: foul, misshapen, violent. Despite myself, I took an uneasy step backwards. Some of the creatures drew forward to flank his sides. More _nichevo’ya_ formed behind me. The room seemed so much darker, so much smaller, and I could not fight the shiver that swept my body.

“Now or never, _sankta_.”

“This is unnecessary.” 

I wavered as the hot breath of one the _nichevo’ya_ warmed my heels. That shouldn’t be possible⎯they were gloom and shadow, not living creatures. Unless the Darkling had stretched the power of _merzost_ even farther. Just what had he been up to? Would they bleed if I cut them down?

 _Surely not,_ I thought. If he could create life from nothing, Ravka was in much more trouble than I originally imagined. His abominations could stretch past the dark and invade other countries. Nowhere would be safe. As if it could read my mind, the creature closed a claw softly around my ankle. 

“Even if I had light, I wouldn’t be able to do the Cut,” I warned him. But he could see through my words, see what I wasn’t saying. Desperation frayed on my nerves. Literally and figuratively, I was backed into a corner.

“You’re sure of that?”

“I have no amplifier. I could never do it without an amplifier.”

“A pity,” he frowned. Then he clenched his first. The claw on my leg clamped down, locking me in place. The creature closest to him gave a minatory snarl. At the tip of his head, it charged forward. I cringed back and closed my eyes⎯if dying meant that I was a weapon he couldn’t use, then so be it.

A second passed, and then another. Talons and teeth never ripped into my flesh, never tore into my heart. My eyes fluttered open. 

The _nichevo’ya_ was gone.

All of them were. 

I saw triumph and relief when I looked to the Darkling. His eyes moved over my arms, neck, face: everywhere there was exposed skin. I knew what I would see when I looked down, but that didn’t do anything to lessen my dismay. I was glowing. It was barely anything, but it was visible against the shadows he cast. 

With nowhere to run, nowhere to hide, I watched like a trapped animal as he stepped toward me. His every movement was slow and deliberate, meant to overwhelm and intimidate. I didn’t extinguish my glow. Despite my shaking, I felt steadier than I had in a year. The light seemed to fill every crack in my pores, heal every cut in my skin, even as his darkness crouched closer. 

He brushed a finger over my cheek. “Oh, Alina,” he purred. I refused to look at him, so he grabbed my chin and forced me to. “You thought you could hide from me.” 

I yanked myself away. “Get your hands off of me.”

He retreated back to the table and leaned against it, watching with folded arms as I fumed. A storm brewed behind his eyes, and I knew that I was in for whatever verbal berating he thought would “fix” how I felt. The realization should have frightened me, with him being who he was, but it didn’t. 

“I hate you,” I spat.

Darkness roiled beside me, forming into the shape a _volcra_ before dissipating. A threat. I rolled my eyes. “Seriously?”

“Do you not fear them? I seem to remember that you did.”

“You would be a fool not to,” I said. “I seem to remember that they ripped into you⎯unless you let that happen?”

Absently, he reached to trace the largest of the scars on his face. It did nothing to diminish the cold beauty of his features.

“I was surprised when you left us to die,” he murmured. The day I had left him to die was the day he expanded the Fold and killed thousands. It was the least he deserved. And somehow we had found ourselves back there, back to the start, as if this past year was just a dream and I had woken up.

Maybe it was a dream. I rubbed my fingers over my eyes and turned to the bookshelves, praying to whatever saint heard me that I could go back to sleep. My hands dropped to trace the book spines. Truthfully, it was a cover to hide my sudden bout of shaking, but the Darkling couldn’t know that. I let the softest touch of light bounce from the fire to the shelves. 

It was chased away by a smothering blackness. I again resisted the urge to roll my eyes. Some things, like his constant need to display dominance, never changed. “You’re insufferable,” I said, though I wanted to say much more. I wanted to climb into bed and curl up with Mal and forget everything, the way we did for months after the Darkling was defeated. I wanted to run outside and let my light consume everything. 

“Alina,” said the Darkling. I ignored him.

“I’m not afraid of you.”

He gave a short laugh. “Of course you’re not,” he said. “Foolish girl.” Flashes of a hunched woman filled my mind, her eyes shadowed and her hands tough. Yet another lost to the Darkling’s hunger for power. I remembered her last words to me, how she told me not to fail her.

I swallowed and straightened my back. “I mean it.”

“This snark of yours grows tiring.”

This snark of mine was the only thing that kept me from collapsing onto the floor. _Fake it until you make it,_ said Nikolai’s voice in my mind. This was for him⎯everything that I would have to do, it would all be worth it if it kept him safe. 

I heard the Darkling shift somewhere behind me. “Alina,” he repeated, his mouth lingering on the word. It was inflected like a question. Curious, I turned back to face him. My hands fell to my sides, curling into fists as I noticed the way his stare lingered on me. 

“Did you ever regret it? Picking up the knife, and driving it into my chest? You never were a killer.”

I was growing tired of this back and forth. “Cut to the chase,” I snapped. “What is your proposition? You’re here for a reason, and I’m assuming it’s more than aggravating banter.”

His eyes flashed. It was all the confirmation I needed.

“I am planning to seize the throne from the new _otkazat’sya_ king. Stand with me,” he offered, hair falling into his eyes. My anger flared, but I was not surprised. The Darkling was predictable on this front. But he wasn’t foolish. He knew I would object. 

“Seize the throne? From Nikolai? No,” I said, shaking my head. “I should have known you would ask something like this. Nikolai is a good man, and a better king.” 

“He knows nothing about ruling a country.” 

“He knows enough, and he’s doing a good job. How do you think the people of Ravka will feel when the king they love is assassinated? And replaced with _you_ , no less? There will be revolts. Not just against you⎯but against all Grisha. Are you willing to make that sacrifice?

“Yes.”

“You shouldn’t be,” I muttered.

“I will have you, whether you help me or not. Killing him should be easy enough.”

Our eyes leveled. I did my best to keep my voice even. “You cannot have both of those things. My loyalty will not be won through slaughter.”

“And who said I desired your loyalty?”

That made me pause. I turned his words over in my head, laughing a little at the obviousness of it all. “Look me in the eyes,” I told him. “Look me in the eyes and tell me you do not wish for me to stand by your side. You asked for me to join you a minute ago, and I have a hard time believing you like to ask for things.”

His head tilted a little, regarding me in mock rumination. “I will make you a deal.” Around us, the shadows grew a little longer. “Take the throne by side, and I will spare the boy king. He will be kept in the prisons of Os Alta, away from rebellion, away from harm.”

“That⎯that is a terrible deal.”

A sigh left his lips, and it did not sound surprised. “That is as far as my mercy extends.”

“Then make it extend farther.”

He turned his face to the fire with an air of finality, like the conversation was done and over. My window had closed. “I will leave for the capital,” he said, “and I will tear that _otkazat’sya_ from the throne. Then, if you don’t join me, I will hunt your other friends. You will wish you took my offer.”

“No,” I said. “ _No_. I swear, if you do this, I will never stop resisting you. I will never stop fighting you. I can promise that much⎯I will break things, ruin things, and do everything in my power to undermine you. Always.”

“Always is a long time. That promise will be a hard one to keep after a few decades, I assure you.”

“Don’t test me.”

The two of us stared each other down, both unmoving, both unflinching. We would get nowhere with this. At last I relented, eyeing him up and down, taking in the weary set of his shoulders. The discoloration below his eyes was more pronounced than I remember it being, and the slope of his cheeks more severe. 

“You should rest,” I said with a bite of venom. “We’re in no rush.”

A blink signaled that I had surprised him. Yet he remained expressionless, likely searching for a reply that would piss me off. Never mind the fact that his face was usually blank⎯or twisted into one unpleasant expression or another. 

“You cannot run from your magic, Alina. This matter isn’t settled.”

“You’re right, it isn’t. We’ll continue talking when you wake up.”

The Darkling continued his stare, and I moved past him to the cabinet where my various knives were stored. After tucking a few into my coat, I turned to find him still watching me.

“You can have the bed,” I told him. “I have duties I need to attend to.”

I left him by the fire, alone with his shadows.

Opening the door, I stepped out into the clearing where the little house stood. Tall trees surrounded it on all sides, different shades of muted green and white.

Our conversation replayed in my head as I trudged through the early morning snow. What had just happened? When I was far enough away from the cabin, I let myself panic. My fingers found the rough bark of a pine. I leaned against it, trying to slow my breathing, hoping that he couldn’t see me somehow. Everything was all wrong. It was supposed to be Mal at the door, not the Darking⎯this war was supposed to be over. I inhaled. Exhaled. 

The important thing was that he agreed to wait, at least until later, to talk. Now I needed to convince him to wait on politics⎯a hopeless endeavor, I knew.

 

* * *

 

**ROZALIYA**

Rozaliya blinked awake at the sound of murmuring outside her room. Glancing around, she saw that the other Grisha children were fast asleep. No one stirred. Varinka snored from her cot, invisible in the great dark of the room. It was hours before sunrise and Rozaliya was annoyed at being awoken. Slipping off her blanket and throwing on her boots, she crept past the cots to inspect the noise, pressing her ear against the wood of the Little Palace door.

From here she could tell that the noise wasn’t murmuring- it was frantic talking, loud and with multiple voices fighting over each other. Throwing one last look over shoulder, she eased the door open and slipped into the hall. It was cold and she wished that she had grabbed the coat her mama had made for her. But it was too late now, so she moved to the end of the hall, and pressed herself against the wallpaper to better hear the voices. 

They were familiar, but she couldn’t place them. _Should she peek?_ She bit her lip, then shook her head. She was Grisha! She wasn’t a coward. Swallowing her unease, she tied back her curly black hair and dared a look around the corner. 

“It’s everywhere,” said the woman closest to Rozaliya. She was beautiful, with unbound red hair and a shining gold eyepatch. But that wasn’t what caught Rozaliya’s eye- it was the Grisha beside her, standing tall in a Squaller’s blue kefta, with hair like Rozaliya’s and a glare as sharp as steel. 

The woman in blue flipped her hair over her shoulder. “Stop shouting,” she said. “I’ve sent the news to Nikolai. It may be a few weeks before he actually gets my letter, but word travels fast.” 

The man, the only other person in the group, dipped his head. “I don’t want to bring her into this.” His voice was deep and thickly Shu, but most noticeable of all was the edge in his words. When he glanced in Rozaliya’s direction, she gasped and flattened herself to the wall. The beating in her chest was too loud for her to make out the red head’s response. But she for sure heard the woman in blue- who Rozaliya was beginning to suspect was General Nazyalenksy- and it made her heart stop cold.

“I don’t want her back either,” the General snarked. “But in the past day, all of our Sun Summoners have lost their Sun. What else are we to do?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> lemme just say that writing the darkling in a domestic setting is HARD. apologies if he's ooc; i'm still learning the ropes :)


	3. three

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If anyone was wondering, the cabin was a gift from Nikolai! Hence the nice furnishings and books and all that good stuff.

When I returned to the cabin, the Darkling was gone. I backpedaled, circling the house and searching for footprints. Next I checked the washroom, the empty stable, everywhere that he could have gone. He wasn’t there. I shouldn’t have been surprised. Something was off about him showing up out of nowhere, with no horse, no sled. It made sense now, why he didn’t just grab me and try to force my powers out that way. He was just a projection⎯ if we touched, his amplification powers would be null. I almost buried my face in my hands. There had been no snow on his clothes. He didn’t look around, he didn’t mock me about my _otkazat’sya_ lifestyle. And he had been surprised when I told him to get some rest, like I believed he was actually in the cabin with me.

I let out an audible groan at my lack of observation. Throwing my coat off, I went to warm by the fireplace. The shock of seeing him had completely thrown me off balance. Now that the feeling was wearing off, a much deeper, much more tired dread began to set in. 

From what it sounded like, his plan was to storm the capital and take the crown. But things with the Darkling were never as they seemed. 

As I stood alone, I found that the most terrifying thing was that I couldn’t warn Nikolai. I was located just west of the Sikurzoi Mountains, an area that was notorious for its random and deadly snowstorms. I had no horse. Spring brought the melting, and with it safe travels, which was when I originally planned to leave. But with the Darkling back? I needed to get out of here as soon as possible. The nearest village was about a two day trek, yet even if I managed to get there safely… he would just kill Nikolai before I could move any farther.

Put plainly, I was trapped. The only two options I had were to either wait here, or agree to the Darkling’s earlier proposition. 

I could wait.

It was possible that he would put up with my stubbornness. He came offering me a choice, which meant that despite his talk of violence, he wanted me willingly. I could string him out, lead him on. But would he be too smart to fall for that? _All men can be made fools._ His own words, now being used against him. What could I offer that would make him put aside centuries of ambition? There was nothing I could give besides myself. I remembered how he came to me the first night I slept in his room. The way he touched my face, murmured my name. _My Alina._ Maybe there was something to exploit there.

But the revulsion I felt when he touched me overpowered almost every other feeling. I knew my limitations, and I was not a good enough liar to pretend I shared his ambitions. 

The connection between us was blown wide open. If I wanted, I could reach out, go see what it was he was up to.

I was tempted. After a moment of hesitation, I gave it a pull. When there was no answering tug, I backed toward my bed and sat down. Closing my eyes, I submerged myself in our bond, giving it another pull. Again, there was no answer. If I focused I could feel him, but the door that I was once able to cross through was slammed shut. I was effectively blocked out. As frustrating as it was, there was nothing I could do now but stew in my own thoughts and wait for him.

The hours ticked by. I ate, showered, read, and cleaned up my mess of books and blankets. When all that was done, I played with my light. It had been so long since I’d seen it. When I summoned, a hole in me filled that I didn’t realize existed. I had just thought that all of my bad feelings were about Mal. It never occured to me that this was something I might truly miss, too. 

It was evening now, but you couldn’t tell from inside. The fire lit the room like a dim library, orange and pleasantly cool, a sort of sanctuary from the biting chill outside. I was curled into the reading chair with a book in hand. Little star shaped orbs hovered around the room. 

He didn’t visit for the rest of the day. 

I continued summoning, throwing small flashes against the wall, trying to see how bright I could make them. Once I got bored of that, I tried my hand at expanding them. I really was weaker without an amplifier. That steady ache for power was gone though, and I was glad of it. That didn’t mean it would be gone forever. If I ever wanted to stand a chance against the Darkling again, an amplifier was necessary.

 

* * *

 

My dreams were broken by the sensation of something soft and cold tracing my cheek. When I opened my eyes, the Darkling was standing over me, his fingers brushing over the curve of my lip. He dropped his hand as I scrambled back, my head nearly hitting the wall. I swallowed down a scream. 

The room was near black, but I could still see the faint outline of his jaw, the slight glint of his grey eyes. “Hello,” I managed. My quilts were tangled all around my legs, wrapping me up like a folded _blini_. I must’ve looked like a frightened deer.

“This is not the first time I’ve seen you asleep,” he said. I squinted. His face was shaven now, but still scarred, and I wondered why he looked more real than the times he appeared to me before. Maybe he had decided to stop hiding behind a mask.

“Yes,” I muttered, “you used to watch me sleep.”

I could only faintly see him as he turned and moved to the chair across the room. I wasn’t sure of how he navigated through the blurry dark, but he did it nonetheless, settling in and reclining back like it was the most natural thing in the world. With one hand on the armrest and the other on his mouth, he wore the seat like a throne. “Come here,” he gestured. 

Out of both spite and intimidation, I didn’t move from the bed. My breath clouded in front of me. His fingers drummed on the chair. Slowly, I peeled myself from the covers and draped a coat over my shoulders. The fire was out, so I let a little glow light the corners of the room. Even that spent my energy. The Darkling didn’t seem to notice, only raised a brow and gestured again, urging me on like I was a child who couldn’t follow instructions. 

When I came to stand in front of where he sat, he took my bare hand in his. “Let us try something,” he said. I tried to move from out of his grip, but his other hand shot out to hold me in place. The double contact of our skin gave him a good view of where we were.

He took a long look around the cabin, drinking in everything and filing information away. The corner bed by the door, quilts and blankets sprawled across it. The chair by the fire and the table behind it. My books, my drinks, my equipment. An ugly look crossed his face. “Is this the future you always fancied for yourself? Simple lodgings, a simple life?” He sneered. “You were made for so much greater things.”

“I’m here for the winter,” I snapped. He released me, and I put a safe distance between us. “Mal and I decided to stay here, but then we took a break and… he left. I chose to stay.”

“For the winter?”

“Yes.”

“Why?”

I rubbed my eyes with the backs of my hands. 

“To think… I needed to think. I still need to. It’s nice, not being surrounded by people–” I shot him a look– “and not being paraded around like an object.” 

“I only did what I needed to. Believe it or not, villainy was not my intention.”

“I never thought it was. But your means of getting what you wanted were horrible. You sacrificed Grisha, you murdered a whole village of people, you toyed with things you shouldn't have.”

“And to escape me, you killed a skiff full of Grisha. Through me, you channeled _merzost._ ” A _nichevo’ya_ formed at his feet and wound around his legs. “You may see me as a monster, but our sins are all the same.”

I opened my mouth. Closed it. Opened it again. “Self defense is different than an organized massacre. Stop equating things that aren’t equatable. And s _aints,_ ” I growled and gestured to the creation at his feet, “stop summoning those things in here.”

“Do they bother you?” he asked. It seemed to solidify further, turning the minor pulse in my shoulder to a steady throb. 

“Yes.”

With a flick of his hand, it dissolved into shadow. He shrugged. “I’ve heard rumors of unease in the villages. In the past day, Sun Summoners throughout Ravka have lost their abilities. A tragedy, the Apparat says.”

So he was in Ravka. Or at least close to enough to hear whispers. Something like guilt stirred in me at the news of the lost Sun Summoners, but that was the least pressing issue right now. “Where are you?” I asked. He played a finger across his mouth, ignoring the question. “Are you in Ravka?”

“So eager to see me, Alina?”

I needed to know what he was doing, if he was organizing anything, making deals with foreign governments. “Answer the question.”

“It is so like you, to demand things without an offer in return. Perhaps I am in Ravka. Perhaps I am not.”

My fingers tightened their grip on my coat. “Will you at least tell me why you’re here?”

At that he tipped his head up, his pale fingers falling into a steeple. “We didn’t quite finish our discussion yesterday.” An expected answer, but irksome regardless. I wandered towards the bookshelves and grabbed my matches. The sound of wood striking flint filled the space, followed by the smell of smoke.

“Ah, the pointless discussion that will go nowhere,” I said, lighting more candles. “I almost forgot.” The match in my hand burned to the stub, so I tossed it away. “Where shall we begin? The part where you threaten Nikolai– or the part where you offer me supreme power and an army of pretty dresses?”

“I don’t think you’re as funny as you believe.”

I turned to look at him. “I’m very funny. Your sense of humor just involves death, despair, and other miserable things.” 

He was so unbelievably handsome. And that stare– utterly flat but entirely not, the one where it felt like he was seeing right through me, past the walls that I pushed up and remarks that I made. Sarcasm would not get me anywhere with him. I swallowed and felt my edge dissolve a little. I hated that too; the way a single look from him could feel like being pulled open and examined. 

But wasn’t it freeing, not having to pretend with him?

“I am a patient man,” the Darkling said finally. “But even I grow tired of this.”

I shrugged as nonchalantly as I could. My throat still felt a little tight. “I will not apologize for my refusal. Nikolai is one of my closest friends, and I will not aid in his murder.” Even the thought made me sick. His distaste for my use of ‘ _friend’_ fizzled through the room, but I would not apologize for that either.

“You can be persuaded,” he said in a tone that was too light to be good. I knew that look in his eye, and when he opened his mouth to speak, I knew it would be a threat against someone else I loved. Redirection was needed, and _fast_.

“Give me the winter,” I blurted, holding his gaze steady. We were both aware that I had the disadvantage here, but he let me talk anyways. He leaned back and watched me fidget with my hands.

“Ally with me.”

“Give me the winter to _think about it,”_ I insisted. I wouldn’t think about it. I would find a way out of this mess, and everything would be fine.

He regarded me closely. “What will you do during that winter?”

“Stay here. I can’t leave, can I? I just need the time to think,” I lied. “Especially with your offer on the table.”

“And why should I allow that?”

“You’re busy. Give me the time you’re spending away to… consider.” Another lie. I hoped I wasn’t as easy to read as I feared. When he only continued to watch me, I bit my lip, playing up the anxious expression on my face. 

Whatever he saw in me seemed to satisfy him. “You wish to sit here and fester?” He asked. “So be it.” He paused, his eyes glinting with some thread of unknown knowledge.  “I will give you the winter.” 

I nodded my head. We had nothing left to argue about, yet he kept that same searching look on me. “This is not a grace I would extend to anyone else,” he stated. I nodded again, a bit of my confidence returning. The darkness he had drawn around his chair began to flatten. He was preparing to leave. 

“Oh, and one more thing?” I asked.

He waited.

“Get a haircut.”

If he was Mal, he would’ve rolled his eyes and made a joke. Instead he vanished without a second glance. Feeling like I just did something very bad, I groaned and flopped backwards into bed. The Darkling had been in this room. He was here, just a moment ago. My hands started to shake.

I got up quickly and set to work, because if I didn’t, I was sure I was going to cry.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> “What could I offer that would make him put aside centuries of ambition?”  
> Answer: NOTHING
> 
> ;)))))))) xoxo


	4. four

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey welcome back to my channel how is everyone today  
> Sorry for the "wait." I have been….. expanding and fixing the outline some more. Naturally, that means less actual writing time. You guys are AMAZING and I love you. 
> 
> note: there was so much jumping around this chapter that I thought the bold line breaks would be too much. i hope that doesn't bother anyone ;''')

Two days passed with no sight of him. Without much of a choice, I continued my usual routine of hunting for food and firewood. As intimidating as he was, not even the Darkling could stop winter from progressing. The days were already growing shorter and colder. The decline in weather also meant a decline in my bearings, and sounds in the forest that I once ignored now set me off. I couldn't go ten steps without pausing, throwing a glance over my shoulder, unsheathing a weapon. The anxiety was exhausting and never ending, and if this was my future, I didn't know how I'd survive.

Walking past my bookshelves that afternoon, the seed of an idea formed. I ate my lunch and drank my kvas and once I was done, I stood with a newer sense of purpose. Feeling a glimmer of something like hope, I set out to find every title I could on history and politics.

There were many, I learned, laying them all out on the floor. Usually it was the novels that caught my eye, but Nikolai had been sure to stock the collection with a wide variety of genres. Reading had become something of a hobby of mine since moving into the cabin. Even still, the piles of books looked intimidating enough that I sorted them into smaller stacks. That night I picked up the largest one and dove in.

 

The Darkling had charm, intelligence, power, and purpose. He had the benefit of experience and patience where I was sorely lacking. But maybe I could learn from him. History was only words, and books were nothing next to real experiences, but they were the closest I could get to the things he's seen. So sitting in my little cabin, I learned about him. Inadvertently. There was hardly a mention of any Darkling (besides the creation of the Unsea) but I knew that he had seen the birth and death of each king and the unfolding of each war.

I would be lying if I said that it was fun. A few times I caught myself nodding off, and a few times I didn't- waking up with the imprint of a book on the side of my face. But at least acting like I knew what I was doing was better than doing nothing, so I read through every dull passage and absorbed as much as I could.

After some time, it became a welcome distraction. With my mind wrapped around words, my thoughts were free of him, and for a time, I felt free too.

 

By the third day, doubt had begun to settle in. Books were not going to stop a power hungry tyrant. But past the doubt was desperation, and that desperation was what kept me on the floor and hunched over moth eaten pages, an ache knotting my shoulders. When I finally tired of reading, and after the sun sank low below the horizon, the howling of wolves kept me awake. A few knives moved from inside my cabinet to under my pillow. I sat up every morning expecting to see a figure in black at the foot of my bed, but he was never there.

Life went on.

Despite my lack of luck where hunting was concerned, I still kept trying. My usual fare was rabbit and game, and most of the time I was lucky enough to simply stumble upon them. Now, harsh reality set in: the air was getting colder and the animals were growing more scarce. The small patches of sustenance my hunting brought would be gone in a few weeks. There would be nothing for me to eat but dried food until spring.

 

Three days turned into a week, and sometimes while distracted I would feel a ripple of something from the Darkling; a slight tug through our connection, or a flash of _awareness_ in the back of my mind. I figured it was his way of checking up on me. Reminding me that he was ‘watching,’ as if I could forget. A few times I returned the pull, but trying anything more was useless. There might has well have been a brick wall separating me from whatever he was doing.

I read about as many conflicts as I could, absorbing battle strategy, political tactics, manipulation techniques. There was Tsar Fredrik II, who doubled Ravka's territory; Tsar Pyotr, who established the First and Second Armies... it went on and on like that, with names and events that I had no hope of remembering. Keramzin's lack of history tutoring didn't help.

Yet I kept flipping pages. It was something to do, after all.

 

At around six bells one evening, I noticed my dwindling supply of wood and set out for more. It was a ten minute walk to the nearest dead tree, and with my sled-wheelbarrow, I made it in twelve. 

I felt him before I saw him, a prickle racing from my scar to the hairs on my neck. He was a short distance away, somewhere around ten feet, but did not turn to look. Instead I kept collecting firewood from the dead birch beside me, piling dried limbs onto my wheelbarrow. I had been waiting for this since he left- for a reassurance that what I saw was real, for another opportunity to talk. Now that he was here again, I couldn't form words.  

My fingers tripped over each other, dropping my bundle of sticks into the snow. I pressed my lips together. “I wondered when you would return,” I said. Splinters snagged on my woolen gloves. The Darkling remained silent. He was leaning against a tree when I turned, kefta on and shockingly black, his face smooth and unreadable. His hair was cut shorter- only fractionally, now the same length it was when we met. Long enough to run a hand through, too short to be tied back.

When he shifted against the tree, his kefta fell open. Underneath was bare chest, pale and defined and scarred in places. Surprise parted my lips. I snapped my attention back to his face. I didn't ask what he was doing, but I knew the question was written all over me.

He drank in my reaction with flickering grey eyes. His satisfaction hit me quickly and firmly, something like a slap, before the feeling shuttered and was gone. I flinched at the sudden connection between us. There was something I was missing. Something was off. Still his eyes remained on me, watching. Calculating.

Dread hit me like a splash of cold water, a familiar but powerful sensation, overriding my judgement and causing me scramble back. In not one of my smartest decisions, I reached for the closest stick and threw it at him. It missed.

My hands flew to my mouth. He didn't visibly react, but something tugged between us. "Go away," I hissed, dropping my arms to pull another stick from the snow between my feet. 

_"Now."_

He cocked his head, offering a single near invisible tilt of his mouth. Then he was gone. I waited a moment to make sure I was truly alone before pressing my palms to my eyes. Saints, I was an idiot.

But... what the hell was that about?

After he left, I decided to cut my firewood expedition short. I had collected enough already anyways.

During my trudge back to the cabin, I found myself growing more and more frustrated. I had thrown a _stick_ at the Darkling. And he left because it pleased him to do so, not because I had a say in the matter. Our dynamic had never been anything close to equal, but I would lose my mind if he kept appearing and disappearing for what looked like a blatant display of power.

I would have to do something about that.

Something unnameable stirred in my chest at the thought of the Cut. Even with practice, it was impossible for me to do without an amplifier. Remnants of my old hunger called out to me, a warning and a plea all at once. It was dangerous to be messing with that kind of power again, but what else was I going to do? There would be no other way to enforce my boundaries.

When I got back to my cabin, I pushed the door open and put the wood in its basket. Brushing my hands clean, I went back outside and into the trees. The sun was sinking below the horizon, and the cold air was growing colder. It would have to do. Finding a comfortable spot, I planted my feet firm and closed my eyes.

I reached deep down inside, straining for that surety of the Cut, the intensity and certainty of power that strong. When I held out my palms, nothing but a soft glow spilled out. I pushed again. The light didn't grow. Groaning, I turned and paced around the copse of evergreens, pausing to throw my hands up again in aim for the nearest tree. I pulled with everything inside to cut it down.

I tried until I was shaking and sweating, then let myself drop to the icy ground. Snow soaked through my trousers and chilled me from the inside out. It felt good against my skin.

Once the sky was completely dark, I retreated inside to the fire and downed half a bottle of kvas. I wasn't foolish enough to believe it'd work the first try, but the sting of my shortcomings still surfaced like an old wound. I slung an arm over my eyes, and tipped my head up to take a longer sip. The alcohol fizzled through my head with a pleasant numbness. “How is it possible for two people to make such a big mess?” I asked, thinking of myself and the Darkling fighting on the Fold, at the Spinning Wheel. Nothing answered but the crackle of the fire, and it was sitting there that I fell asleep, drunk and deliriously, dangerously overwhelmed. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Since NO ONE can agree on the Darkling's canon hair length (it's different in every fic lmao) I'm settling for the length used in [THIS](https://lbardugo.tumblr.com/post/57081878814/nilaffle-okay-this-was-reeeeeeeeeeeally-super) semi-official fanart, if maybe a bit shorter. 
> 
> P.S.: I've FINALLY solidified the plot for part one! Some editing may happen to the already existing chapters and tags. I'll make note of it when it happens. (Chapter two especially- I hate it with my entire soul so don't be surprised if I honestly just rewrite it lol)


	5. five

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey everyone, I’m back! School is kicking my ass, so updates won’t be too frequent, but this fic is NOT abandoned!  
> Leigh said on instagram that she’s been sent pictures of the S&B set and of cast members in costume!! I’m so excited I could pee.  
> (ALSO...... I heard through the grapevine that Ben Barnes is probably playing the Darkling. What are everyone's thoughts on this??)

I fell asleep with a book in my lap the next night. When I awoke, I tried to continue where I left off, but the words blurred into an unholy mess. 

Quickly, I became too restless to read. Instead I spent the hours outside, bending light around my fingers, attempting to weaponize what little of my power I could reach. That infinite well of magic I had with the amplifiers was now no more than a memory. A phantom itch I couldn’t scratch, no matter how hard I tried.

There were moments where I thought I had it. I would be stacking wood, or trudging over rocks, and on impulse I would fling out my arms in the wide arc of the Cut. Something in me would call out and rise like rushing water. But nothing ever came of it⎯ only the dying sputtering of light and a matching feeling of hope. When it was his face I envisioned slashing, I could swear my light burned a little brighter. Yet it wasn’t enough. It was never enough. 

Often I found myself just sitting in the snow. Thinking.

When he found me like that, he would stand beside me and say nothing. There was nothing to say. But the crackle of his impatience was as sure as day, and though I knew I was being watched, there was something else to it as well. My intuition was hardly perfect, but with the Darkling my suspicions felt more like premonitions. And he seemed to be waiting for something.

In the moments between my practicing, and my thinking, and his visitations, my thoughts strayed to Mal. What would he say, if he was here? Things between us once seemed so perfect. I liked to think that he would know exactly what to do, what to say. How I could keep my head on straight and persevere. But now the things I _liked_ to think were all wrong, and I could only replay the moments during the civil war where Mal had turned his back on me; drinking, and yelling, and kissing prettier girls. When the Darkling was in the picture, Mal was even more lost than I was. In a different way, but in a simpler one, I was all alone.

⎯⎯⎯

“Yes?” I asked the Darkling. We were in the cabin, I in the chair and him leaning against the hearth. He had been watching me pick at my jerk stew for the past ten minutes. It was uncomfortable, glancing between him and the fire in between mouthfuls of bitter liquid. “I don’t need to be babysat.”

He remained silent, stony. I leaned back in my seat and pulled my knees into my chest. “It’s lonely here,” I continued, stirring the contents of my bowl around. “You’re familiar with that feeling, yes?” 

The quiet continued until I couldn’t bear it any longer. “Say something,” I said wearily. I was so sure that he wouldn’t; that he would only give me a cryptic look and vanish, leaving me alone again. But he didn’t. He dipped his head.

“Alina.”

My spoon stilled it’s spin around my bowl. It was a paltry thing, _Alina_ , but loneliness was weird. I wanted to hear him speak again. Anything was better than my own thoughts, tumbling through my brain in the way that only weeks of too much time alone could permit.

“You’re here right now,” I said, pulling for something, anything. “Why?”

“We’ve discussed this.”

“Perhaps,” I paused. “But maybe I’d just like to hear you speak.” Was it wise to divulge a weakness? No, I found it wasn’t. But the slight crinkle of his brow, the indiscernible half-second flash of his eyes seemed like a worthy enough reward. 

The Darkling shifted, switching his weight from one leg to another. He didn’t take my bait. So this was how it would be. I felt a familiar bubble of bitterness at his contrariety. Placing my bowl on the table, I spoke. “You should have found another Sun Summoner who was more willing to cooperate. You’ve seen my power anyways,” I said, holding up a palm of unsteady flickering. “I’m weak now. I have no amplifier, and even if I did…” my hand fell into my lap. “I couldn’t give you what you want.”

Steel grey eyes snapped towards me. “Is that so?”

“I’m not immortal anymore. No amplifier could give me the power I once had.”

“You still don’t understand,” he said, “do you?” He pushed his tall form off the wall and stepped towards me. 

“What?”

“Those Summoners were nothing. Frauds, playing with something that wasn’t theirs. And that power?” He stopped in front of me. “All yours.” When I leaned away, his hand shot out to grab my jaw. Nimble fingers bit into my skin and locked me in place. I stared up at him and ignored the pressure, conviction and defiance rising in my throat like water in a geyser.

“They weren’t _frauds,_ ” I argued, trying to pull away. But he held firm. “I saw what they could do. Somehow they had more power than I ever did.”

He sighed lightly, like this was an argument over tea, like he wasn’t pinning me in place like a bug. “That power is _yours_ , Alina. You just have trouble accessing it. All of it has gone back into you.”

I shook my head. “No.” He had to be wrong. But deep down there was a voice that said otherwise, the same voice that called out for him, and I knew he was right. His fingers slid from my face to my neck, leaving little pinpricks of awareness in their wake before falling away. I shook my head, again, thinking. “That doesn’t guarantee my immortality.”

“If you have enough power to spread through Grisha across the country, I doubt you are dying anytime soon.” 

I searched his gaze. His face was as blank and even as ever, betraying nothing, feeling nothing. It was why I believed him. 

“Right. And let me guess: you want to help me master it?” 

His perfect lip curled. “After everything, you should be grateful for the opportunity.”

It would be so easy to fall back into our old ways. Fighting him had always been harder than not, but I wasn’t weak. I wasn’t a traitor. My bravado slipping, I looked away from him. Another small defeat. “I don’t want that,” I said. “I want you to leave me be.”

“Lie all you like, it will not still the hunger in you.”

He was right about that too. But I wasn’t lying. In an attempt to end the conversation I picked up my stew and waved my hand. “Yes, yes, I know. Get out.”

This time he obliged, but something in his parting glance sent my blood running cold. It wasn’t amusement, or anger, or frustration⎯ it was anticipation, dark and bared. My stomach gave an uncomfortable jump. The monster was stirring, and I could only wonder when it would strike.

⎯⎯⎯

A few days passed without word from him. Each morning I woke feeling less and less eager to browse my books, and three days later, I stopped reaching for them at all. The only thing that remained was my light. What good would reading do me anyways? Uncertainty nagged at the frayed edges of my mind, forming something of a headache that refused to go away.

I stopped reading altogether, because that helped nothing, and I kept my practice up, but I didn’t make much progress. At least I could say that I persisted, as much good as that would do me. And I was still the Sun Summoner. Yes, I still had that⎯ the Darkling could wear me down and push me around all he liked, but he could never take that away.

⎯⎯⎯

Mal was probably in another woman’s bed right now. 

My focus on the target in front of me wavered. The air was so chilled that my breath froze on its pass over my lips, but that hadn’t been a bother. I swallowed and repositioned my arms. It would have been a revelation, but I found I wasn’t surprised. Old habits die hard, and the possibility of him meeting another girl along the road was all too real. The swell of something sour in my stomach lifted my hands, and I didn’t even think before lashing out. 

There was a tingle in my arms, and a buzzing in my veins, then a sudden demanding jolt. I stumbled back, but not before I saw a bright flash of light. It felt hot. Blinding. But it was too small, just the ghost of something greater, and I didn’t war with the disappointment that overcame me. 

I stepped back to steady myself. A puckering black slash stretched across the birch in front of me. When I ran a finger over it, it was hot to the touch. I could nearly see Baghra’s scowl, feel the jab of her stick in my side. _Mediocre. It won’t do._

It wasn’t the Cut, but it was a start. I could recreate it if I was lucky. 

I’ve never been lucky.

An hour later, I was still standing there, shoulders aching and fingers bitten with frost. Even when sifting through the dregs of my mind, when crawling through my darkest moments, I couldn’t do it. I stood in the cold for far too long pushing myself. Each failure only strengthened my will. I could do this all day, all night. Who would stop me?

The collar weighted my neck once more, heavy with age and power, and the blood of the stag shined crisp at my feet. I pushed. Mal and I were on the skiff, and Mal was thrown overboard. Everything went black. The Darkling was shouting and we were running, and everyone else was dying. I pushed. Screaming echoed in my ears as I recalled the Darkling’s attack on the Grand Palace; Vasily dying, Nikolai frantic, everyone trapped in one room and fearing the worst. The rumble of the Cut shaking the palace walls. I pushed. The Darkling’s lips on mine, and the intoxicating pull of _merzost_. The relief of surrender. I pushed harder. 

Sergei torn to pieces. 

Nikolai, corrupted.

I thought I felt warmth in my fingers. There was no point in stopping now, even if I wanted to.

Then the Darkling was offering me a throne, and the horrible, poisonous part of myself was intrigued. Curious. I sat between his legs as he told me his name. I laughed, then his lips were on my neck, and I was being devoured. I pushed. Ana Kuya swung from a tree, and the Darkling was holding me. I pushed. I pushed.

When I opened my eyes and stretched out my arms, there was nothing. Not even a fizzle. When I recollected the plunge of my knife in Mal’s chest, nothing. When I re-imagined the plunge of my knife into the Darkling, the sensation was the same. I didn’t feel anything but emptiness, an ugly and unending spiral, so I lowered my arms and just stood there. For once, I wasn’t sure of what to do. The usual urge to read or hunt or practice was gone. 

Around me, the forest was blanketed in its usual silence. But somehow it now felt heavier. I couldn’t go back to the cabin just yet, because whatever this emptiness was, it would follow me, unresolved, as a phantom hovering over my shoulder. Maybe it’s been unresolved for a long time. 

I headed in the direction of my walking path. Underneath my coat my skin felt numb, and instead of the proper trail, I found myself on the banks of a frozen river. The sun was reaching the trees now, and I settled on a dead patch of nettle to watch it set.

I wondered what the Darkling was doing.

I thought of the long shadows below his eyes, under his cheekbones. Even after _merzost_ , he was beautiful. It was sickening. His jaw and chin and nose⎯ all perfectly elegant, regal. And his power… well, he was very powerful. Too powerful for me to oppose now that Morozova’s amplifiers were gone.

So, what exactly was I going to do? Just how far, exactly, would I go to take him down again? I knew with certainty that I’d die to get the job done. But that wasn’t an option. I wouldn’t let Nikolai or anybody else be slaughtered, so really there was only one choice here. I played with a twig, trying not to think about it too hard. According to him, my chance to save Nikolai had already passed. But maybe, if I put my dignity aside, I could create another opportunity.

I stood, allowing myself a moment to crush the thought before it bloomed. Surrender was not an option. Not yet. Shaking the frost from the tips of my fingers, I set off on my way home.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It’s such a struggle writing this part, because my brain just wants to jump ahead and write the >more exciting< and plot⎯y things. We are nearing towards the end of part one though… which I promise is short compared to the rest of the fic :)  
> 


	6. six

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ;"")

I felt nothing but relief as my cabin came into view. The sky had long since grown dark, and the small clearing was lit with nothing but the orange flicker of the gas lantern I’d hung next to the door. My feet were so sore that I wanted to curl up into a ball, boneless, and not move until my fire gave out and I needed to refuel it.

I jiggled the frozen door lock with my key until it clicked open. 

When the wood under my weight groaned free, I didn’t even blink at the Darkling’s form in my chair, just threw off my coat and grabbed a bottle of kvas. Sitting up on my bed, I leaned against the wall to relieve the ache that plagued my entire lower half. Our eyes met across the room, and despite his calm disposition, I could sense a lick of that old cold fire somewhere underneath. I felt myself frown against the rim of the bottle. Taking a swig, I rubbed absently at the throb in my shoulder. My fire from earlier today was still crackling and popping, despite the cold.

“I’d like to go to sleep,” I murmured. The responding tilt of his head was equally gentle. But he was watching me.

Closely.

“I’m not stopping you.”

I snorted but said nothing, because what was there to say? The silence went on. Like this, when it was just the two of us and the stakes were low, I found my guard lowering against my better judgment. But he could never change the things he did. He wouldn’t change the things he wanted. After a few minutes, the warmth of the room and the buzz of the liquor lulled me into a half-sleep. Realizing I’d spill my drink all over myself if I drifted off with it, I turned to place it on the low-lying nightstand next to me.

A knock sounded on the door. I paused mid-reach. Something hit me then, a feeling that was equally hot and equally cold, and it froze me so completely on the spot that I couldn’t remember what I was originally doing.

“Alina?” A familiar voice called through the wood. “Are you in there?” 

I shot up, running a hand through my hair. I sat my bottle down and turned to the Darkling. He hadn’t moved or even turned to look at the source of the noise. I didn’t know what to do.

Mal was here. Mal, who I had been trying my hardest to forget. Mal, who I thought had moved on. This was really not a good time, but I couldn’t think past the sing of adrenaline in my veins. There were so many things that could go wrong if I let him in. But it was _Mal_ outside.

I took tentative steps forward. When my hand reached the door handle, I looked back to the Darkling, but he still hadn’t budged. He was watching me though. An endless set of situations flew through my mind in those seconds, but in none of them could the Darkling hurt Mal. He was merely a ghost like this, and he could do nothing but scare me with his heavy looks and threatening words. Without another glance back, I unlocked the door and eased it open.

“Alina?”

“Mal,” I said breathlessly. He was there, across the threshold, with messy brown hair and snow-covered clothes _._ He looked unchanged, with his same blue eyes and same boyish smile. My heart gave a traitorous flip-flop. 

“Hey.” He looked me over with one brow arched, the dimple in his cheek making the ache in my chest almost painful. “You smell like alcohol.” 

I couldn’t match his smile. Something must have seemed off to him, because he looked me over a second time with an extra touch of uncertainty. “Can you let me in?” Behind him, I could just make out the stretch of the forest, dark and wide and looming.

“I...” I itched with a physical feeling of uncertainty. There was no telling how the Darkling would respond to Mal’s presence. How would I handle him, if he lashed out? _Would_ he lash out? There were too many variables and not enough time to consider them, and as the night grew darker and harsher behind Mal, I realized with a flagging feeling of hope that I didn’t have a choice. If I turned him away, I could be turning him to his death. 

My eyes fluttered closed. I moved aside and gestured for him to enter.

He pushed past me without a qualm and let his bag thump to the floor. First, he looked to the bed, which was a mess, and to the tools I had scattered everywhere. Then his gaze settled on my chair. Mal went very still. “Alina,” he said. 

And it was that one word that turned everything bottoms up.

The Darkling stood. It was a simple movement, really: his arm fell from where it rested under his chin, and he bent before coming up to full height. But Mal let out a slew of curses so loud that I stepped back. He pushed me behind him in a swift and sturdy motion, and I realized moments too late what was happening.

“How heroic,” said the Darkling.

Mal’s arm became a bar in front of me, some sort of feeble attempt to keep the Darkling from taking what he wanted. His face crept somewhere between exploding and puking. 

“I knew something was off when I saw those damned _horse tracks_.”

“What?” I asked. I sped to put the pieces together. 

“He has a horse. I saw the evidence on my way here, but I thought it was nothing.” There was urgency in Mal’s voice. Desperation. All at once my panic gained a flavor of sadness, because I already knew how this would play out. The odds were unimaginably, irrevocably stacked against us, and for once there was no magical way out.

The Darkling leaned against the table. “You always were an exceptional tracker.”

Mal’s handsome face twisted. “Don’t mock me.”

“I would never.”

Neither of us bothered to ask how he got past my lock. There was no point.

“How long has he been here?” asked Mal, his bright eyes never leaving the Darkling. Suddenly, he turned that gaze on me. It burned with accusation. “He should be dead, but you don’t even look surprised to see him.”

“I’ve been seeing him for weeks,” I said. Even to my own ears, the words fell flat. Mal flinched. “Remember when I had those visions of him last year? It was like that. But I couldn’t leave. I had no horse. It wasn’t safe.”

“So he’s been visiting you for weeks.” Mal sounded disgusted. He ran a hand through his hair, and despite the stretch-cord tension, he was aggravated with me. “And what have you two been doing? _Talking?”_

I was too tired for all of this, too tired to explain, so I only held up my palm and conjured the strongest glow I could manage. Mal cursed again. His eyes ran over my hand and flicked to the Darkling, the pieces in his mind all falling into place.

From the corner of my eye, I saw that the Darkling’s mouth was slanted upward. “My, you speak as if you haven’t been spending the past few months with Nazyalensky.” He reached for the bottle I had set on the table and spun it in his hand. “How quickly _otkazat’sya_ love dies,” he remarked, then inspected the stamp on its bottom.

All over again, the world seemed to fall out from under me. What was another kick to the heart on a day like this? The only thing I could say for certain was that I wasn’t surprised. I forced myself to breathe in, then out. I blocked the both of them out and did it again. Mal turned, apologetic. “Alina…” 

I stepped away from him and wrapped my arms around my middle. “It’s fine,” I said, but the hole in my chest only caved further. His arm stayed in its shield, bringing me another rush of sadness and longing and resentment and-

Annoyance. It wasn’t mine. 

“Is it fine?” asked the Darkling. He put the bottle down. “How long would this life have satisfied you, Alina? A mouse, hiding away in her hole. It doesn’t suit you.” His irritation spiraled into something sharp and hungry, and I felt it tear through our connection like wolves after prey. The glimmer in his eyes darkened, if only a touch, and I felt a shiver of premonition crawl up my back. The Darkling pushed off the table. “I am done squabbling with you like children. Alina, you have two choices.” 

I swallowed thickly. “Only two?”

“You can be rational and come with me. Or, you could repeat past mistakes and act like a fool.” He dragged his stare from Mal to me. “Keep in mind that one of these options ends with your friend painted on the floor.”

I pushed the arm restraining me aside and moved forward. Mal’s jaw ticked, more so from the old bitterness of being pushed aside, I thought, than from concern for me.

“You could let Nikolai rule in peace,” I offered. “Return again in eighty years and start anew. Everyone who knew the truth of your identity would be dead, and you could chalk this all up to another evil ancestor.”

The Darkling grinned, and it was the most unsettling expression I had ever seen him make. He saw straight through my diplomacy. He knew he was victorious. This was a hopeless endeavor. But hope, however blind it may be, thrived most where it was futile.

“ _Please_ ,” I said. “I am begging you to listen to me. You know I’m right about this. The fallout would be too much for this country to handle, and you of all people should understand just how unprepared Ravka is for any more conflict. There are already international issues, funding issues, things that Nikolai can fix. If you just let him. _Please_.”

“Beg again,” he said, eyes shining.

I shifted my stance, and Mal’s shoulders tightened beside me. My teeth ground together. 

“Please.”

He smirked, a pretty and terrible thing. “No.”

“You said you’ve left court many times before to let your face be forgotten. What would make this any different?”

“You are grasping at straws, _sankta_.”

My feet brought us nearly face to face. “But this could mean civil war! Lantsov loyalists on one side, yours on the other. Possible groups who believe _I_ am the rightful heir. It would be chaos. A disaster. You’re too smart to do something so stupid.”

With my fists clenched white and Mal as still as a stone, it hit me: I was a fool. There was no universe where the Darkling would see reason, no universe where he would give up his ambitions and walk away. Because he was right, and he _had_ been waiting too long for this, and I was a damned fool if I thought there was a possibility of anything else. 

There was no hope for Ravka, not with the Darkling alive. And I was not powerful enough to stop him. He watched me closely, no doubt reading each and every thought as it flitted across my face. I was always an open book with him.

I stepped back and felt Mal’s fingers brush mine. He was still upset with me, but that didn’t stop his instinct to grab me and run. I wanted nothing more. Instead I turned to him and took his face in my hands, ignoring the steady cracking of my heart.

“I’m sorry,” I whispered, trying to burn the lines of his face into my memory. He shook his head.

“Alina, no.” 

I forced my chin up and closed my eyes. Pieces of me were ossifying and crumbling into dust.

“I’m sorry, both for what I’ve done, and what I couldn’t do.” 

“Alina, _no⎯_ ”

“I don’t have the luxury of choice, Mal. I have to do this.” I looked to the Darkling. He watched us impassively. I wondered if he was remembering our similar exchange in the chapel, back when I had a winning chance and the energy to fight him.

I released Mal and stepped away.

“I’ll go with you and do what you want, whatever you ask, just…Mal leaves this cabin alive.”

“Very well.”

Mal straightened, ready to object. The Darkling’s mouth twisted in return. 

Maybe it was frustration, or maybe it was my perpetual attraction to danger, but something made me move between them and lace the Darkling’s fingers with mine. They were cool and lithe and firm. He looked from our joined hands to my face, watching as my cheeks flushed high and hot; my pupils expanded with the closeness of his skin. His amplification was blanketed somehow, but I could still feel his intention when he spoke.

“Swear to me,” I said. “Swear you’re telling the truth. He lives.” The Darkling’s gaze rested on me calmly. Through his skin I felt subtle flashes of aggravation, and other things so repressed that they were impossible to read. A corner of his mouth quirked.

“I swear it.”

Mal gave out another noise of protest, but I ignored it. 

Tightening our fingers together, I could find no lie. His jaw feathered when I stepped back and made to smooth my skirt, straighten my shoulders. 

As I moved away, he wrapped an arm around my waist and yanked me back into his chest. It happened so fast that I fell into him, my back pressed to his front, caged in by one sturdy arm. The shadows beside Mal coalesced into a _nichevo’ya_ ; rabid, clicking, and spitting. 

“No!” I cried, trying to wrench free. Mal’s eyes widened with shock, then fear, then fluttered closed in apprehension. I made another mad claw for freedom, but the Darkling’s grip around me was firm. “He’ll live,” he murmured, lips brushing the shell of my ear. My nails cut into the sleeve of his kefta.

“Stop!” I shouted.

But the creature didn’t. The Darkling watched on eagerly, his scars flickering white in the dim lighting.

“Mal, run!”

Mal didn’t run. The shadowy beast bent down and hissed, whipping its half-formed tail across the floor, then advanced. I realized suddenly that the Darkling wasn’t using his hands to control it. He wasn’t using his hands, but the _nichevo’ya_ moved onward anyway, and I would do nothing but watch as it ripped Mal to shreds.

I slumped back into the Darkling’s chest, suddenly too heavy to move. I couldn’t bear to see this. My head turned away, but the Darkling’s hand locked on my jaw and forced my view forward. “They’re beautiful,” he said with reverence, “aren’t they? Pure magic, more than his kind could ever understand.”

It sprung and knocked Mal to the ground, wide jaws snapping and clicking over his head. I let out a choked sob. There would surely be fingerprint bruises along my chin later. The fight didn’t last long, for the shadow knocked Mal’s defending fists to the side and lunged for his arm. Teeth flashed white. Mal cried out once and fell silent. 

With its apparent battle won, the _nichevo’ya_ calmed and looked up, and I could see where it had bitten through Mal’s shirt. The pain was molten fire, I remembered, more than enough to pull someone under. Beside me, I felt the Darkling clench his fist. The _nichevo’ya_ let out a departing hiss and was gone.

But the Darkling’s hold on me did not lessen. He brought his mouth to my ear again and spoke softly, like a lover between sheets.

“Get your coat. We leave now.” 

He released me, and I fell to the floor. I scrambled over to Mal, who was still breathing, and checked the wound for blood. There was none. There were puncture wounds: four, deep and dark and raw from _merzost,_ but not a trace of gore. So the wound was like mine. If that was the case, he could be out for hours or days, but I comforted myself in knowing that there was enough bread and water reserved around the cabin to accommodate. 

I leaned down to place a kiss to Mal’s cheek. “I love you,” I whispered. His skin felt feverish against my lips. I smoothed the hair away from his forehead. This could very well be the last time that I saw him. Tears threatened my eyes, but I forced them away.

The Darkling opened the door and stepped outside. I layered my outdoor clothes on slowly, taking a moment to process and compartmentalize my dread. I gave Mal one last look, wishing that things were different, that I could have been enough for him. Then I left. 

The punch of the cold was immediate. Wind cut through my clothes, freezing my somber face and stinging my nose. I closed the door, and we were illuminated with nothing but the light of my gas lantern. “You knew that he was coming, didn’t you?” I asked. “That’s why you showed up now. You wanted to use him as a means to coerce me.”

“Yes.”

“How?”

He didn’t deign to answer. “Drink,” he said, handing me a metal flask. I unscrewed the lid and sniffed it. Water. Without much of a choice, I threw my head back and took a couple gulps. It went down cool and smooth.

“Where are we going?” I asked, returning it with shaking hands. Before our fingers could brush, the world shuttered around me in a wave of vertigo. I took a lurching step back. The corners of my eyes dimmed. The realization that he drugged me hit at the same time my knees buckled, and I used what strength I had left in my arms to keep from sprawling into the snow. Fury rose and fell in me, beaten down by the drugs like rocks in a stream. 

I felt hands wrap under me and lift, steady and strong, as darkness swallowed everything.

* * *

**[{END OF PART ONE}]**

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> All I can say is FINALLY!!  
> Classic Mal, getting upset with Alina for things out of her control. Also, yes, I promised he wouldn’t be in the fic at all… but… you know. That HAD to happen ;)


	7. seven

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> To my lovelies who have NOT read King of Scars yet, there are plot points in this fic that are borrowed from KoS. If you’ve read it, you’ll understand what I mean almost immediately. Since my fic is totally (completely) different from the canon work, there shouldn’t be any real spoilers, but a disclaimer is in order anyways!

**[{PART TWO}]**

* * *

_“I will strip away all that you know, all that you love, until you have no shelter but me.”_

_-Ruin and Rising_

* * *

  
Light bit around the periphery of my consciousness. It was nothing soft, not like the gentleness of my own power, but blinding pinpricks of white that stabbed and sliced without interlude. There were other things, too. The crunch of snow. Lulling movement. Warmth behind my back. And nausea—so strong that I was pulled back under, farther and farther away from that light and into the darkness. 

⎯⎯⎯

Slowly, more and more became clear. 

Underneath me was the jolting discomfort of a horse saddle. The sensation between my shoulder blades was a body, pressing warm, comforting waves of heat into my frigid skin. I longed to lean into it. I longed to break free of what was chaining me down. Yet the weight behind my eyes remained heavy, so I let myself drift in nothingness.

I didn’t dream. Everything was black.

⎯⎯⎯

When I returned to the world, it was in the early hours of dawn. Through heavy lids I watched the sunlight play pink and blue across the snowscape, noting dimly the change in vegetation. Shorter, thicker trees, all still blanketed in white.

“Where are we?” I asked, throat rasping from sleep. I took notice of the blanket over my shoulders, then, with disgust, the weight of arms boxing me in. The Darkling’s chest rose and fell behind me, and I was once again hit with nausea. 

Warmth fanned over my head. “You need to eat.” 

My attention went groggily to the worn satchel at the horse’s side. Pulling it into my lap, I found fresh fruit, dried meat, biscuits, and cheese. My hands stilled in surprise.

“And if I refuse?”

“You are trying my patience,” he murmured into my hair. In my memory, we were again at the Grand Palace chapel, his arms wrapped around me, his triumph so dark and strong that it held flavor on my tongue. The idea of being pressed that close to him for a long period of time was more than paralyzing. I hated that he intimidated me still, though I would deny it if he said as much out loud. 

The horse jostled. Claustrophobia crept in.

Farther into the bag were two metal canisters, one familiar and one not. I reached for the former and unscrewed the lid. The Darkling’s chin brushed my hair, and the sudden crash of panic that I felt was enough to prompt the metal to my lips.

“Alina⎯”

But I didn’t hear the rest. The water went down, and its effect was instantaneous. I was gone again, falling and falling before he even realized what was happening.

⎯⎯⎯

The next time I woke, he made me eat and drink. I could have fought him, but I didn’t, because there was a boy on the floor of my cabin with his limbs splayed out in pain, and I knew that another act of rebellion would cost him.

_Mal, Mal, Mal._

His name echoed through my mind like prayers on a chapel wall. 

I didn’t have Mal. I didn’t have saints to call upon, or someone to hold my hand and guide me along. I had myself, for all that was worth; I had hope; I had the knowledge that no matter what the Darkling did or was going to do, I could plant my feet firm and fight back. I was my only weapon. 

So I sat quietly and ate my cheese and remained sheathed, waiting. The snow fell and our horse walked on. Emptiness stretched beyond us, nothing but vegetation for miles, and with my thoughts scattered among the little flurries that danced through the air, it occurred to me quietly that this waiting would last a while.

He didn’t force it on me, but each time I came around I sought out the company of that flask. Cold shock of metal, liquid down my throat, then blissful emptiness. The darkness was always there: open, empty, everlasting. And when I turned to it, it took me as I was and it held me.

⎯⎯⎯

I counted four sunrises between the start of our journey and the end of it. At first light of the fourth day, I awoke to the jab of the Darkling’s elbow as he finished off the contents from his personal flask. It was some sort of anti-sleep tonic, burrowed in the folds of his kefta for when he needed it. That was how I knew we were close. To where, I had no idea. 

Within an hour, I could hear the sound of a crowd ringing in the distance. There was the clang of a hammer on an anvil; the buzz of talking, shouting, and movement; a sense of organized chaos that I hadn’t heard since the final hours before the battle on the Shadow Fold. It only grew steadier as we went on, leaking over the forest canopy and echoing over branches. Paths formed on the ground, made from shovels and boots and marked with colored sticks. The trees grew thinner. 

Beyond them, at the very edge of the treeline, lay a large clearing filled with tents. They were the sturdy kind built for long-term lodging, the tops frosted over, and between those tents were workstations and bustling groups of people. I recognized keftas in familiar red, purple, and blue. Others milled about in a grey military dress that I had never seen before, creating a sea of moving color that hurt my head to behold. 

Dust and smoke rose in columns toward the sky. Everywhere I looked was gritty and cold, filled with bodies covered in sweat and grime and the weariness that marked a harsh winter. No one stopped what they were doing as we entered, but a wave of attentiveness rippled throughout. Backs straightened. Many heads turned our way. But the talking never ceased, and duties were carried on.

This was all the Darkling’s doing, of course. 

A small wall of snow marked the start of the clearing, the ground beyond so worn with traffic that it had slushed straight down to the soil. As we passed over, a group in mix matched keftas approached our horse. Before we even stopped, I maneuvered out from under the Darkling’s arms. One overconfident step down had me sliding off and on my ass into the snow. 

If I had hoped to stand, I was sorely disappointed. Everything throbbed. I could think of nothing but the scream of my thighs, my bottom, the soreness radiating everywhere. I had forgotten about saddle sores. The drink must have culled the pain during the journey, but it didn’t help me now. 

A man from the approaching group crunched up to me and held out a gloved hand. I took it as gracefully as I could, fighting the urge to push him away, to stand on my own despite the weakness in my thighs. “The Sun Summoner, I take it?” he asked. I set my jaw and stared into his broad, bearded face. “An honor.” 

As he dipped his head I caught a whiff of tobacco. The red kefta over his shoulders marked him as Corporalki, broad to fit his shape, and over the right breast bore a simple eclipse pin: a circle with all but a fraction filled in, metal spokes lining the circumference to illustrate the sun. Beside him stood a woman in matching attire, both eyebrows raised at the sight of me covered in snow.

“She’s rather small,” the woman mused, eyes dark with condescension. They raked me over, causing my palms to clench with a familiar angry shame. She was tall and curvy and beautifully Suli, everything like Zoya yet nothing like her at all. I wanted to hiss at the Corporalki woman. Instead I could only blink at her through my haze of pain.

“All is in order?” The Darkling asked. He dismounted, and the woman nodded. 

“Good. I expect a full report.”

I yanked myself away from the Corporalki man and stumbled past the group. Turning in a circle, I took in the Fabrikators at their tables, breath clouding over their work. Many people in grey were carrying bundles of firearms, and between the bustle I could make out a group of Squallors drinking around a fire.

Fear and awe roared like twin flames in my chest. 

A war camp. 

We were in a war camp.

“You have got to be kidding me,” I muttered. I took another sweeping look around, and the pain in my bottom half faded for a moment in wake of sheer disbelief. _So this is what you were up to._

The sound of the Darkling’s voice was a knife through my trance.

“Yuri, take the Sun Summoner to her tent. I want no less than three Heartrender eyes on her at a time.”

I turned back to them, but they were already walking away, the Darkling in the lead. He cast one last look over his shoulder at me and inclined his head. A command and a threat. I bristled. _Do as you’re told and I’ll consider humoring you. Obey, and your friends may see mercy._ I could’ve laughed at the absurdity of my hope. I knew better than anyone that mercy from the Darkling was not mercy at all.

A man around my age stepped forward from the shadows, all long and lanky in frame and clad in ornate grey robes. He had a peculiar kind of face, his green eyes a little too wide and watery, and a black head of hair that reminded me of a well used broom.

“Come along,” he said, ghosting an arm over my waist. My stare didn’t leave the Darkling’s retreating form. The man watched him too, those green eyes glinting brighter than silver coins, his back straight and lips parted. I slapped his fingers away.

“And who are you?”

That gaze turned on me, and something deep below my ribs stirred. “I’m Yuri,” he said, his pitch unusually high, “and I serve the Starless Saint. Will you come with me?”

Just as ordered, three Heartrenders flanked me. I had no choice but to comply.

“The Starless Saint?” I asked.

“The Darkling, the true king of Ravka, whatever name you call him, it doesn’t matter.”

I gave a humorless laugh. “So he’s calling himself a saint now?”

“Oh, I’m afraid that’s not quite it. He _is_ a saint.”

To that, I said nothing. What made a saint a saint, anyways? Who decided that one was holy enough, pure enough, righteous enough? I hadn’t even truly died, and I earned the title. I was not pure or righteous in any regard. At the time of my “death” I was only a scared girl running for her life, thinking selfishly of no one but myself and Mal. Hundreds died that day, because of me. 

We walked through the camp at a brisk pace. I tried to keep up without complaining, but my feet stumbled over every crest and dip of the dirt. Dutifully, Yuri placed an arm around my waste to keep me upright, but I weighed us both down and the press of his body only exacerbated the pain. I counted every step of our feet as we moved. 

“You really shouldn’t look at the Darkling like that, you know,” he said. When I didn’t respond, he glanced to the guards following us. “It’s ungrateful.”

“Ungrateful.” I tasted the word slowly. 

Yuri only sighed, his long back bowing down. “The sacrifices he has made are unimaginable. And his power? Even more unimaginable. I know you feel wronged, many people do, but this is about more than just you. It’s about more than just him. He’s leading us to a better future.”

Had Yuri not seen Novokribirsk? Had he not been in Ravka during the civil war? “I believed that too, once,” I bit. “Then he put a collar around my neck and used me to slaughter a village. He showed me the body of the woman who mothered me, after he killed her.”

Yuri shook his head like I missed the point entirely. And maybe I did. But I wasn’t going to waste my breath trying to explain to a zealot why he should care about other people, why murder and prejudice were wrong. He could hold up his book of saints and claim rectitude, but nothing justified slaughter.

As if he could convince me otherwise, he bore his eyes into mine. I willed myself not to glance away. The whole rabid priest act seemed pathetic to me, but in the grand picture I was not the one he was convincing. Many villagers would be less skeptical, more eager to believe. 

“So, who’s all here?” I asked, finally looking elsewhere. “Are you allowed to tell me that?”

Yuri seemed pleased at the question. “The Darkling’s Grisha from the civil war. Defectors from the rest of Ravka, or from other countries. And the people in grey are mine,” he said, pointing to a group of soldiers who were apparently his. “They’re the Cult of the Starless Saint.”

“Saints,” I breathed. They were _otkazat’sya,_ and they worshipped a man who would enjoy nothing more than to see them suffer. I wondered distantly if they knew that, but it didn’t matter in the end. My own cult following had taught me that faith usually trumped all, including doubt or fear, and these people would likely die for what they believed.

“This is only a fraction of my group. There are more,” he said, “all over Ravka. Spreading faith through Fjerda, Shu Han. But no one knows that he’s alive except the people in this camp. His most faithful.”

_But no one knows that he’s alive except the people in this camp. His most faithful._

Many of my questions died, shriveling in my mouth. I could see the mechanics of it clearly⎯ the Darkling gave his orders and Yuri distributed them, giving him a face until his return, allowing him to claw his way back into influence one believer at a time. _That genius bastard,_ I thought. _Bastard, bastard, bastard._

We rounded around a group of Fabrikators and came upon a tent, no different from the others save for the guards stationed at the entrance. It was warm when we entered, and large, with a metal fire pit in the center and a small place to sleep in the back. I felt nothing but relief when Yuri released the chaste hold of his arm.

“I have food for you. But you need to wash up first.” He tilted his head to a changing screen in the corner, and my thighs wanted to cry. As I made my way over, Yuri began sharing stories from his time with the Cult. He kept talking as I stepped behind the screen. “You see, the people needed something different to believe in,” he prattled on. “People needed to see _themselves_ in their leader, no offense, sankta. No one is pure light. Pure good. Darkness, however…” 

I stopped listening. There was a fair sized bin on the floor, filled with water warm to the touch and a cloth for scrubbing myself. I stripped, and my legs screamed at each brush of fabric. Despite the pain, the water felt good on my skin, rubbing away Mal, rubbing away the dirt. I dipped my hair in the water and rinsed it with soap as best as I could. When I was done I wrapped a towel around myself and peeked out from behind the screen. 

“Are there clothes I can change into?”

He paused. “Oh, yes. Draped on the chair behind you.” I turned to see a dress, simple and thick. Beside it were multiple layers of coats. All black. I told myself that it was only a color, but as I laced the front of the dress up, it seemed like more. How could a dress feel like both a noose and a set of armor all at once?

The coats went on next, warm and thick and soft. When I finished tying my boots, I emerged and drifted to where Yuri was fumbling with trays. He wasn’t handsome, I noted in the fire’s glow, but he seemed fevered with something greater than himself. He was like the Darkling’s own Apparat, without the stink of mold or corroded gums, yet with a shared fanaticism. They were both zealots, they both worshipped false idols. The realization had me edging away. Stupidly, I bumped into the table behind me, then keeled over with a flare of white-hot agony. 

I couldn’t see for a moment, or even breathe. Everything but the pain felt a million miles away. As quickly as it had come, the sensation faded, but I couldn’t force down my grimace or my erratic breathing.

“Is everything alright in here?”

Yuri and I both startled at the voice of a Heartrender who had poked his head through the entry flap. “There was a flash of light,” he amended.

“Of course,” Yuri said. I held myself against the table and shook my head.

“A healer. I need a healer.”

The man glanced between us and gave a solemn nod. Then he bowed to me and was gone, out of the flap from whence he came. When I glanced back to Yuri, he had balanced two large trays across his forearms. “Come eat something.” 

I eyed the food warily. The army provisions were the same drab fanfare from my stint in the First Army, but food was food. Acting like this was all completely normal, I went over to where he stood and arranged the glasses, making room as he sidled over. The meal was watery soup and crackers. Yuri leaned in to hand me a tray, but his thin arms wobbled under the weight.

I jumped back as a pitcher slid off and onto the floor. Yuri cursed, and I felt a mean trill of satisfaction as he fell to his knees and patted down the mess. 

“Sankta, forgive me.” He continued patting the floor and bowed his head deeply. I considered denying, if only to see what he would do, but paused as my eyes fell on the place where his coat had come undone. It took me a moment to realize what I was looking at. My hands flew to my mouth.

“Saints, Yuri. Your _throat_.”

He looked up and played his fingers over his collarbone. “Ah, this? A badge of loyalty _,_ nothing more.”

“It’s a _nichevo’ya bite.”_

The bite was a twin of mine, four blots of darkness on the pale skin of his collarbone. It pulsated with an angry wrongness. I rubbed the raised ridges my own scar, feeling the need to bathe again, then stopped and let my hand drop to my side. I was done with being disgusted with myself. I was done with letting him get to me.

Meanwhile, Yuri’s face had come alight. He observed my tight lips and whitening knuckles and said, “It means loyalty to Sankt Kirigan. Only the strongest, most faithful can endure the process. But it was worth it. I can feel him in me, guiding me, helping me.” He was so sure, so painfully oblivious. He had invited a monster in and let it make home in his bones. I drew in a breath, forgetting everything but the pounding in my ears. 

“Please don’t tell me you’re this ignorant,” I said. “He’s using you! He doesn’t care about anyone but himself. He lies and beguiles to get what he wants, Yuri, even with you.” 

Underneath my anger I thought I was sad for him. At one point, I wasn’t much different, lonely and in search of someone to tell me who I was and what I needed. Yuri looked nonplussed. 

“Non believers say what they will. But the faithful know the truth, I promise you.”

There was no winning this. It wasn’t even a real argument. I turned my head away and blocked out his reverent stare.

“Leave me.” 

Yuri bowed again, nodding. When he was halfway outside he turned back to me and said, “He will be speaking with you soon. You should rest some. Eat.” I waved him away. Managing me should be the least of his concerns. 

When I was alone with the fire and the spilled pitcher on the floor, I almost felt bad for snapping at him. The Darkling was a master manipulator. Even if Yuri _was_ a bad person, he was still a victim in a way, and hadn’t I once felt that same desire to please? Yuri may hope to be the Darkling’s equal one day. I wish I could make him understand that there were only victims in this game, never equals. Not even me.

Despite my reservations, the food wasn’t bad, and I finished it off with a glass of hot tea. An hour went by. I listened to the sound of soldiers talking outside, comforting myself with the presence of other people. When I grew bored of that, I began summoning little balls of light and throwing them onto the thin walls, but they never stayed put, and I grew frustrated. It was a miracle that I could do that much, but my limitations still smarted. That didn’t matter in the end. It never did. I still practiced. 

As noon grew closer my eyelids became heavy. The Healer that I requested came to tend to my sores, using gentle hands to peel the layers of my clothes aside. When she was done she left without a word, stopping only to bow, leaving me alone and trapped again.

I eventually retired to my cot. Dusk came and went, and the sounds outside died down to a quiet murmur. For as much as I was alone, it never did much to comfort me. Maybe because the memories came easiest then⎯ not just of the bad things, but the good too. I missed Genya, and staring at the ceiling with its orange fire glow, I could think of nothing but her hair. She was married now. I hoped she was happy. 

Heaviness settled between my ribs, because I knew whatever peace she had found would not last for long. Everything was about to change. I only wished that she had more time with David. I wished that she could’ve had children, and raised them in a world without darkness, and that I could have been the godmother who grew old and watched them become strong like their mother. Bitterly, I wished for a great many impossible things. The sour truth of life was that you didn’t know what you wanted until your time was already up. Until the doors were long closed and you could do nothing but wish.

I thought about Yuri’s _nichevo’ya_ bite. It was a message, no doubt. I knew the Darkling well enough to understand that. But the real question was why. Why did he care so much? Why must everything be so personal with him, so emotionally exhausting? I turned on my side, mulling it over. Maybe he had run out of wishes long ago. Maybe life had beaten the hope all out of him, and when I appeared, that old fuse sparked and ignited. Mal was the answer to my nineteen years of loneliness, and I’d kill for him, die for him. For the Darkling, I was the answer to centuries.

Even then, my life was my own, not his. I shouldn’t have to be anyone’s answer if I didn’t choose. And he sure as hell shouldn’t kill my friends for denying him.

In my last moments of waking it wasn’t him that I thought of, but instead foxes and ships and clever smiles. In my time here, I hadn’t really let myself think about that. About _him._ Sleep had a funny way of getting to the heart of your fear.

⎯⎯⎯

“What? Mal⎯?”

“Get up. The Darkling is requesting your audience.”

Someone was shaking me, but it was that which made my eyes fly open. I rubbed a hand blearily through my hair and glared at Heartrender standing over me. His dark adam’s apple bobbed. “Get up.”

“I am,” I muttered. I swung my legs over the canvas cot and laced my boots on. When I was done, the man practically shoved me outside. It was odd how the people here would bow to me yet act like they couldn’t stand my presence. I supposed it made sense, though. They were here for the Darkling, not for the girl who stabbed him.

There were already people working as we trudged across the camp. More snow had fallen overnight, and I spied groups shoveling the stuff off of work tables and pathways. They looked up as we passed. Two Heartrenders broke away and fell into position behind us. We passed person after person, some eyeing me with admiration, others with anger or disgust. Many drew back the burlap flaps of their tents just to watch me be paraded past. It was hard not to feel like a prisoner then, like some ugly little girl who didn’t belong. I kept my flaming face held high. I was the Sun Summoner. I didn’t care what they thought of me.

One tent rose a bit above the others, and though it was the same dark blue as the rest, its black trimming and guardsmen easily set it apart. The guards parted as we approached. Even the entry flaps behind them were black, gilded in gold, bearing not a double eagle but an elegant rendering of the eclipsed sun.

A gust of warm air hit us as they led me inside. Like my own tent, it was fairly bare, with a cot and a fireplace and a few uncomfortable seats. Unlike my tent, the walls were covered in maps. A table took up one corner, its surface a painting of Ravka that was chipped like it had seen a lot of friction. Over Os Alta sat a group of carved wooden figures with colorful hair and clothing, professionally and painstakingly rendered. Nikolai and the Grisha Triumvirate, I realized. Painted near the Sikurzoi Mountains was a congregation of tents, and atop that, a wooden figure in all black. Beside him stood a woman in white. 

A strategy table. It made sense that he had one in here. My curiosity led me to the maps a few feet away, but a sound from behind kept me from reaching out and touching them. One moment dripped into next. The muscles in my shoulders tightened with tension.

“You’ve been busy,” I said at last.

“I have.”

“All of this planning. All of this waiting. Seems rather boring to me.”

The table creaked behind me. He may have leaned against it.

“Planning, waiting. Those are my pastimes.”

“You forgot murder, sadism, cruelty.” I turned to glare at him. “We both know my pain is your pleasure.”

The Darkling rested a hand on the edge of the table⎯ he _was_ leaning against it. The fire made him seem taller than he was, his light eyes more shadowed. “And mine yours.”

“What a pair we make.”

“Indeed.”

His gaze was searching, always searching. “Why have you summoned me?” I asked. There was a second then of quiet, neither of us willing to back down from the other’s stare. I watched him lick his lips.

“We leave tomorrow for the capital.”

I flinched. “Tomorrow?” Suddenly I found it hard to look at him. I instead focused back on the walls, trying to manage the maelstrom that was my feelings. I would be seeing Nikolai within a week. I would be seeing Nikolai _bound and chained_ within a week. I felt like a traitor then, like a monster no better than the one across from me, even though I had no choice but to be here. Glancing back at the figurine version of myself standing proudly beside the Darkling, the thought brought me no comfort.

My silence didn’t please him. I could feel his anger creeping forward and closing the distance between us, the blackness at his feet becoming a solid entity. “You should be excited,” he said. “The quicker this is over the better, don’t you agree?”

If there weren’t guards everywhere, I would have strangled him. “Go to hell.”

He cocked his head, the glint in his eyes now wholly separate from the light of the fire pit. “You’re still so quick to anger. So easy to rile. You needn’t be that simple Alina, I’m not that tracker you so love.”

I could again feel my cheeks flush. “For someone as self-assured as yourself, you sure like to bring up other men a lot.”

“I never claimed to be perfect,” he said, and there was such irony in it. Somehow no one was closer to perfect than he was in that moment: mussed black hair and sloped cheekbones, under eyes dark from sleeplessness and _merzost_. He looked every part the Byronic hero from one of Keramzin’s dusty old library books. _Beware the pretty ones,_ Ana Kuya once told me. _They’re nothing but heartbreakers and marauders._

He slaughtered her like a dinner ham. She had been right, as mean as she was. The memory of her hanging from that tree, limp and lifeless with skin grey from livor mortis, was all it took to straighten my softening spine.

“You don’t need to be perfect. You just need to be scary enough to inspire a following. Isn’t that what you’re doing now? Scaring the poor people of this continent into following you, promising them good fortune if they do and ruination if they don’t?” I bit my lip. “The you from a year ago would sneer at the _otkazat’sya_ in this camp. Or are you more desperate? Has the game changed that much?”

Something shifted in the way he looked at me, a candle flickering out. The hand that supported him against the table flexed.

“So ruthless,” he murmured. He smiled a little, but there was no kindness in it. “We leave at first light tomorrow. You will obey my orders. If you cooperate, I may just let your tracker live out his miserable life in exile. You already know the consequences if you don’t.” 

I stared at him in surprise. There was every chance he was lying, manipulating me, but I would take any scrap I was thrown. “Exile,” I breathed. I knew I should have been aggravated by his show of power, but I was too relieved to feel much else.

His eyes pressed hard on my own, that smile still intact. “Don’t look so glad, Alina. You forget that I am going to kill that child-king of yours, and that you are going to watch. His blood will shine red on my fingers.”

The image was clear in my mind. Nikolai didn’t deserve that. Nobody deserved that. “What the hell is wrong with you?"

“In this sense, nothing. I am being practical. When you get one of those stupid rebellion fantasies, I want you to remember the stain of his blood. The cries of his followers. I want you to remember who it is you bow to: me. _”_

I shook my head, shivering. All warmth was gone from the room. I didn’t know what I felt, but my fingers were clenching and unclenching, my heart thundering too noisily in my chest.

“You flatter yourself,” I said, backing away. “You may get your crown and your throne, but you will never be the king of me.”

The Darkling sighed. He knew as I did that this could go on for hours. Raising my chin, I picked up my skirts and set my sights on the exit. The Grisha standing guard were still at the flap. “Escort her back,” called the Darkling from behind me. As I passed by, I made sure to swipe the miniature version of myself and tuck it into my sleeve. If he wanted it back, well, he could kiss my ass.  

⎯⎯⎯

I spent a few hours in my own company. I brushed my hair, being sure to straighten out every tangle, then placed the comb down and stared absently at my reflection in the compact mirror. After, I took a nap. When my lunch came I scarfed it down and warmed my hands at the fire. Eventually, I grew bored of sitting around.

“Let me out,” I called though the entrance of my prison. “I want to go on a walk. Escort me if you want. Just let me out.” 

The same Heartrender from this morning tore his head through the flap and glared at me. “No,” he enunciated.

“I will set this entire camp aflame, I swear to all the saints. Please just let me go out and stretch my legs.”

We stared each other down, both knowing how this would end. “I will speak with the Darkling,” he said. “Stay put.”

He left, and I wandered back over to my cot. It was ten minutes before he returned, lips pressed together and both hands behind his back. “You have twenty minutes. We will walk with you.”

I grabbed my coat and leapt up. “What’s your name?” I asked as he led me outside. The late afternoon sun shone above us, though it did little to warm my freezing limbs. Two other Heartrenders from the tent fell into step beside me.

The one who retrieved me stared stonily ahead. “Ruslan,” he said. 

“Ruslan,” I repeated. “Well Ruslan, it’s nice to meet you.”

He remained silent. Sometimes I wondered why I even bothered being nice. 

I picked up the pace, leaving them behind, and went to where the Fabrikators worked. To the right was a tent buzzing with activity, Grisha and _otkazat’sya_ alike spilling into the pathway outside. Inside, a plump woman roasted game on kebabs. My mouth watered at the smell. It had been at least a month since I had tasted fresh meat. 

Nonetheless, I continued onward toward my destination. The Fabrikator tables were a mimicry of their Little Palace inspirators, cut from trees in the surrounding forest and preserved with what was probably a lacquer of Durast invention. Glass, metals, and heaps of colored fabric littered every square inch of space. A woman in a purple and grey kefta looked up at me as I took it in. I didn’t pay much attention to her, but it was clear she noticed me. She bowed her head. A few other Materialki looked up at the disturbance, then did the same.

I gave a watery smile and moved away. 

Fifteen minutes came and went by the time I made it to the edge of the encampment. Gazing in from the outside, it all seemed so impossibly big. I warmed my hands and watched the stable boys tend the horses, lining them up at the trough and filling it with water so they could drink before it froze. Not far from there an Inferni sparred with a Squaller; a dance of fire, wind, and punches.

This was where the Darkling belonged. Not some cabin in the woods drinking cheap kvas, but here, leading people. 

Ruslan and the others were never far. When it was time they led me back, and I pretended that Nikolai had a legion of troops and was on his way here. It comforted me to think that he had a winning shot, or was prepared in any way. He would be so impressed if he were here. I snorted. Impressed and horrified.

The fire was out when I returned to the tent that was my cage, nothing but a sad pile of logs that someone had thrown water over. I frowned. A punishment, I presumed, from threatening to burn the place down. I had no way to relight the wood, so I gathered as many warm materials as I could and bundled up. Dinner came, and I was nearly too numb to move.

That night I was too tired and cold to reminisce. Instead, lying with my coat and every blanket I could find, it was this that haunted me: the Darkling was alive.

I fell asleep quickly.

_The Darkling was alive._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In case you aren't familiar with the Grisha Triumvirate or would like a refresher, this link explains it.  
> Yuri is a character from KoS. He may seem a bit ooc, but that’s because I read KoS back in February and don’t like it enough to reread it.  
> And yes. Sankt Kirigan is going to be the Darkling’s saint name in this fic. What can I say??


	8. eight

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There may be typos and some horrible mistakes, but that's because I finished this right now, at 5:45 A.M..... yeah I forbid myself sleeping until I finished. oops. I just felt so bad about the wait and needed to put SOMETHING out there. I'll fix whatever issues there are when I wake up.
> 
> Yeah, it's been another month! SORRY

The next morning, the camp’s normal hustle and bustle was at a fever pitch, with soldiers and followers shouting commands, collecting supplies, preparing horses. All five thousand men were hard at work. Only minutes ago, I was to shocked to learn that there were that many, and shocked again when I heard that half of them would be traveling west to Os Alta with us. A group as small as that could stay undetected all the way to the city, so long as roads and towns were avoided. The others would be staying behind to guard the settlement, to serve as backup.

The soldiers leaving piled their packs onto horses and said their goodbyes. There was shouting, kissing, laughing. I watched with eyes stinging from the wind. “Why is it so chaotic?”

The Darkling stood next to me. We were both situated under the tree at the edge of the forest that marked the place the leaving party was to meet. Men trickled over to where we waited, and his eyes flickered over them, watchful, then drifted absently to me. I thought of only an hour ago, how he had yanked me out of my cot and held me still against his chest. _You’ll be ready in five minutes. If you’re not, you’ll ride with me._ He leaned down, so close I could see my defiant eyes reflected in his own. _This time, I promise you won’t like it._

I shuddered at the memory, itchy and angry. His reply to my question came short. 

“We are leaving earlier than planned.” 

I bit my lip, and bit it harder as another cold breeze brushed past, blowing my hair in my face. I followed his gaze over the group gathering in front of us, then met it as he looked back to me. A moment passed. “Come with me,” he said suddenly, and walked into the forest behind us. In my gut was a warning slither of unease, but as I watched his back disappear behind the trunk of a dead oak, I knew that I again had no choice. I followed him only a few paces into the trees. We were cloaked from view when he paused, then turned.

“Let me see your hands.”

“What?”

“Alina,” he said. “Your hands.”

Tentatively, I held them out, and he spared no time flipping them wrist up and rolling the sleeves away.

I frowned. “Tell me what you’re doing⎯” Then he pulled a cord from the pocket of his kefta, and I knew exactly what he was doing. I backed away, and he moved back with me, following until I was pinned to a tree and he could loop the cord roughly around my wrists. I tried to pull myself away, but compared to him my strength was a leaf in the wind. He tied the bindings firmly over the thick wool of my gloves so that I wouldn’t chafe, then looked up through his lashes to meet my furious glare. 

“You’re binding me.”

“I can’t have you getting any ideas,” he murmured warmly against my hair.

He raised his hand to my face, and I flinched, sparking a jolt anger from him. But instead of hurting me, he only pressed his thumb to my bottom lip and eased my mouth open. His other hand went behind my head, and I thought, panicked, that he was going to cup it and kiss me. 

Instead of putting his mouth on my own, he revealed a black scarf and placed it there instead. He was quick to tie it behind my head, then used both hands to lift my face to his. There was a large knot in the scarf where it rested over mouth. I couldn’t speak around it. Being gagged, I came to realize, was both infinitely better and infinitely worse than being kissed by the Darkling.

“I can’t have you giving my men any ideas, either.” He smiled, but it was bitter. “You have a talent for swaying even the most intelligent soldiers into stupidity.”

I could headbutt him, I realized. Break his perfect nose or add another mark to his face full of scars. Instead I only stared. He stared back.

I was becoming all too aware of our position against the tree, and what it may look like to a loudmouthed soldier wandering by. The fear from a moment ago returned. The one that he’d kiss me, only that it felt different, deeper, and the Darkling seemed to sense it too. His air of lightness fell away, and the quartz of his eyes became backlit by a cold flame. I pressed myself farther into the bark behind me.

Expression unchanging, he pushed away. “The Heartrenders who have been watching you will continue to do so,” he said. “You will ride with one of them. Do anything against orders, and they will knock you unconscious. Then you will ride with me. As I said before, you won’t like that.”

A nod of understanding from me, and he was walking away to organize the rest of the leaving party. I took a minute for myself before returning back. When I did, I was helped onto a horse, and within the hour, we were gone.

* * *

The days passed, one after another, in a gray and dreary procession. The time on the road left me with a sore on my bottom and a crick in my back. My hands were badly cramped, and though they were tied together, I was sure that the Heartrender I rode with wasn’t faring much better. Still, we persevered.

At night sleeping packs were unrolled and horses were tied to trees. The soldiers gathered around fires and ate and laughed, and I watched them all from the shadows at the Darkling’s side. It was the only time I was allowed to be freed from restraints.

“I’m like your little pet,” I said once, when they wouldn’t stop glancing at me. “Have you fed me? Have you watered me? I bet they wonder.”

There was darkness in his voice when he responded, and it rushed through his fingers and into mine as he brushed our hands together. “Not for long, Alina.” He dipped his head down to my ear, dipped his volume to match. “That I can promise.”

* * *

Another night, another conversation. I loathed everything he was, yet I found this to be my favorite part of the day. Loneliness was a strange creature.

“Why don’t you go sit with your men?” I asked him flippantly. “Inspire loyalty and all that.” We sat at the base of another tree, snow melting through our clothes. He offered me a drink from his flask. I ignored his hand. 

He sighed, and in that sound I could hear the layers of his weariness. “They see us as something other. That’s what their loyalty depends on.” ****

“That’s what _you_ made it depend on.”

He took a swig. We both watched the group in front of us laugh, the fire between them crackling gold. “Perhaps, in a way,” he said. “But it’s their nature to see us as different. I embrace it. Manipulate it to my advantage.”

“ _Manipulate.”_

He turned his head to me. I didn’t return the look, but I felt the weight of his eyes on my face. “The Apparat did the same with you, _sankta_ , need I remind you?”

He didn’t.

Yet I didn’t glance to him, or even acknowledge his response. Instead I rested my head against the tree and hoped for sleep, praying to saints that couldn’t hear me. 

* * *

Hours later, he and I stood together at the front of the procession: me, limb-locked and cold; him, silent and watchful. It took less than twenty minutes for everyone to be up and ready, then I was bound, and we were all back on our horses and pushing onward through the raking chill. 

Days passed.

A week. 

I longed for a nap in a _banya_ , or a bed, or a fire, or anything warm or soft enough to chase away the discomfort pervading my skin. My joints and clothes were solid and stiff. Day in and day out, it seemed as if the frost would never end. Then one evening the scouts rode back to our camp, and the Darkling stood.

“How far?” he asked the man swinging off his horse. The Darkling was close enough that I could smell on him the woodsmoke, the winter, the bitter bite of his eagerness. From a foot away, I felt as it swallowed him wholly. 

The man laughed and tied his horse to a tree.“Two hours, maybe three. It’ll be impossible to bypass the surrounding settlements with a party as big as ours. But there’s no alarm raised. Os Alta will never see us coming.” A group at the closest fire roared bawdily at the news. I watched them cheer. From a foot away, the Darkling could sense every confusing feeling that I fought down. I wondered which he felt strongest. I could ask him, if I was brave enough, but I knew I didn’t really want the answer. No one would want to hear that above all else, they’re afraid. 

Something that we both had in common. 

Not that he would ever admit to it.

* * *

On that final morning we set off hours before sunrise, using only the light of hot oil lanterns to guide our way. The silence around us was living and breathing, broken only by the crunch of horse hooves, the occasional cough. The Darkling rode beside my rider and I, unspeaking. He was stretching his darkness around our party. I could feel it like a hum in the back of my mind or a pressure in my spine, curling around me, teasing me. As of yet, he had detected no threat. We continued on like that. In my ears, the quiet grew to a screaming crescendo.

Just as the scout from the night before claimed, it took two hours for us to reach the hill that overlooked the capital. Dawn was just barely breaking, slivers of pink and orange light peeking in from the horizon. 

Wordlessly, the Darkling ordered his men away from the edge, but I had slid out of my rider’s grasp and wandered over anyways. Os Alta was massive and beautiful⎯ wide, sprawling cobblestone streets; shops and homes and communal _banyas_ ; blurry, flickering street lamps throughout the inner city that washed the walls and gardens of the Grand Palace in a warm glow. I could make out the Little Palace too, less bright but far more natural in appearance, and the darker edges of the city that couldn’t afford the excessive expense of oil lamps. It was, all of it, Ravka’s beating heart.

Using my shoulders, I loosened the gag’s hold around my head and shook it off. There was the sound of crunching footsteps, then a warm body settled beside me. I felt more than saw the Darkling frown at the freeness of my mouth.

“I will hate you forever for this,” I said softly. He followed my eyes out into the city, and we both watched it, waiting.

“You will come to hate many things, but I doubt I will be one of them.”

I thought angrily of how he hurt me and chased me, bound me and gagged me. “No,” I said. “I mean that. And no matter what you do to him, Nikolai will always be a better man than you.”

The lights continued to twinkle below us, and the city slept unknowing. The Darkling turned his head and spoke to his followers, voice cracking down like the Cut: “Let’s begin.”

* * *

At six bells we heard the shouts of a riot coming from the west end of the city. I had picked up bits and pieces of the plan from the group talking behind me, but the Darkling kept me at his side, so any more information I could have learned from wandering was lost. From what I heard, the riot was a distraction to lure the city patrol away from our point of entry. Eighty men had gone out. The rest of us stayed behind, hidden, waiting for the Darkling to call the next move. I asked him relentlessly for any details as to what was going on. He didn’t trust me enough to tell me anything. I didn't blame him.

In those tense minutes, scouts watched as the guard stations nearest us emptied. In a half hour the entire west side of the city was sleeping nearly unprotected.

The Darkling relied on this. Once we emerged from the trees there would be no cloaking us, no more hiding. We were to move quickly through the outer sect of the capital and to the wall surrounding the interior. They would know we were coming, at that point. But they would have less than ten minutes to prepare.

When the Darkling shouted for everyone to mount their horses, I turned to him wildly and grabbed for his wrist. “Wouldn’t it be easier to siege the city? Something slower?”

“No.” He pried off my fingers. “I’m tired of waiting.” His eyes shone as he stuffed the gag back in my mouth, and ordered Ruslan to bind my hands. It was as if it was hitting him now that he was victorious, and he couldn’t keep from watching me with that unbearable glee. I made a vulgar gesture before Ruslan seized me, but the Darkling couldn’t seem to care less, running two fingers along the space on my neck where the collar used to rest. “In my life, I have had to do many things I didn’t enjoy. This,” he said, “is most certainly not one of those things.”

Swiftly, Ruslan positioned me onto his horse and climbed up after. I was still sore, but that dwarfed in feeling next to my current bout of panic. It was the worst thing, being backed into a corner like I was. I could only close my eyes and wish it all away. I didn’t, because it’d be cruel to myself to try. As Ruslan kicked our horse into a gallop, I kept them wide open.

We moved quickly down the snowy hill, making fast for the largest road in sight. The Darkling, Ruslan, and I rode in the front, unrecognizable if not for the Darkling’s telltale shadows swirling at our feet. 

I knew for a fact that it was deliberate. He wanted to be seen. He wanted the whispers to reach Nikolai, and he wanted Nikolai to scramble, helpless, in the minutes before our arrival. The tide of my anger swept through me like a Fjerdan flashbomb, momentarily lighting my palms up. Surprised, the Darkling’s head swiveled to me. I ignored him and the thrum in my blood and refocused on staying upright.

It took no time to actually enter the city, and less for the screaming to begin. No civilians were hurt, but as the riders passed shop after shop, home after home, they became loud and afraid. All along the road, people opened their windows to get a view of the commotion, or spilled into the street to shout their confusion. 

When we cleared over the moat separating the outer city and inner city, the gate became visible nearly instantly. It was at least twenty feet tall, gleaming metal met on both sides by a thick stone wall. Guards in double eagle chest plates were lined up all along the top and bottom.

We drew closer, past nicer stone bakeries and cobblers and florist shops, and my anger again returned. I was supposed to protect these people. Why was it that I had to be so weak, so disjointed with my power? A year ago I could have swept the Darkling off his horse and pelted him again and again with the Cut. Now, hands still, I was forced to watch as he came to an easy stop and dismounted. I thought he would speak with the guards, but he didn’t, only called the Cut with a clap of his hands and sliced them all down. At the nod of his head, two Durasts rushed out from behind us and ran for the locks. Other Grisha of the Darkling’s, marked by their black boots, armbands, and caps, worked to pick off defense on the wall.

In a matter of seconds, it was a melee. As I was unable to use my hands, Ruslan made sure I was protected, but a few close bullets from the _otkazat’sya_ on the ramparts sent him tumbling off our steed.

I saw an opportunity. I took it. Ducking down, I found a sharp surface under the lip of the saddle and began running my arms over it. There was a loud clang of metal, and people shouted. I didn’t have to look up to see that the gate had fallen. Through my gloves, sweat slicked my wrists, and I was in a constant fear that someone would shoot me in the back. I should have slid off, but the friction was working.

The horse gave a half-hearted buck as a bullet hit the stone pavement beside us. I held on and sawed at my bindings furiously, nearly sobbing as the last thread snapped and my arms were free. I tore the gag off of my head and gasped through my mouth. There would be no escape for me, but maybe I could help Nikolai without being discovered. I looked around hastily for something to do, and found the Darkling. He was coming straight for me. I slid off the horse and used its flank as support, spitting at his feet as he reached for my arm. 

“Good,” he barked. “You’re already free.” His long fingers caught on the sleeve of my coat and dragged me closer to the palace. “Ruslan!” he called. The soldier’s head snapped toward us, features unreadable, and he came running over. “Take her to the bell tower, and make sure you have a hold on her at all times. Kill anyone in your way.”

“What? Let me go!” I reared back, eyes pricking as he fisted his gloves in my hair. “What are you planning? Why the bell tower?” 

He grabbed my face with his hands, and though I was always afraid near him, I was never quite so scared of him as I was in that moment. “You’re going to watch as the new age begins.” His eyes were manic. His fingers were rough, his palms tender. I was never more confused, never more overwhelmed.

The Darkling pushed me back into Ruslan. Struggling was pointless, but I did it until Ruslan wrapped a muscled arm around my waist and hauled me along. He practically carried me through the palace gate, then turned to the right and headed for the bell tower. Dust rained down as he yanked open the old wooden door and pushed me inside. The room was pitch black and smelled of mold. Ruslan cursed. I cursed back at him, but took off my gloves and summoned a glow. The walls around us were solid stone, cracked and mossy from time. An unrailed spiral staircase took up the center space. Ruslan pushed me toward it, and we went up, stepping through cobwebs and rat droppings. Our feet echoed. My heartbeat sounded in my ears.

When we got to the top, Ruslan heaved open the trap door and climbed up. There was enough sunlight now to see the dust particles in the air and the pastel streaked clouds in the sky. I took his hand and he lifted me up.

As the name suggests, the bell tower did in fact have a bell, but it was worn and green with oxidation.

“Don’t even think about it,” muttered Ruslan. I shot him a look and walked to the crumbling railing. The building must have been hundreds of years old, untouched because of preservation or safety or whatever excuse the Lantsovs probably made up to keep from spending money on it. The view, though, was spectacular. From behind I could see the wall around the Palaces, and beyond it, as far as the light reached, the rest of the city. I turned around and saw the Little Palace a ways away, and closer, the Grand Palace. Ruslan went with me as I walked to the edge and watched the Darkling and his men gather in the courtyard below.

There was a shout, then the palace's wide front doors were swung open. Grisha and soldiers alike spilled outside in half organized groups. At the front of it all strode a blonde haired man in blue. _Nikolai._ I didn’t have time to take him in before he was turning back, barking commands to his men. Even over the wind, I heard the echo. My feelings tripped over themselves on their climb up my throat. It had been so long since I had last seen him, and saints knew I never imagined the next time to be like this.

“Nikolai!” I screamed. Ruslan immediately clapped his hand over my mouth, but the deed was done. Nikolai’s head whipped in my direction. I couldn’t see the details of his face in the distance, but I watched him freeze and run a hand through his hair. On the journey here it was if time had trickled by like sand in an hourglass. When he turned to face the Darkling, I felt the last of those grains fall and lay heavily still. 

No one spoke. No one dared breathe. At last the Darkling moved forward, one steady foot in front of the other until he stood in front of his line. 

He dipped his head in greeting. “Hello, sobachka.” Smooth, easy⎯ his voice rang out against the mother-of-pearl walls of the Grand Palace.

Nikolai stepped forward too, one hand on the scabbard at his hip.“Hello, Darkling. I can’t say it’s a pleasure seeing you. You have brought armed troops into the capital. You have broken the royal gates and killed my guardsmen. Both could be counted as treason, as I’m sure you know.”

“I’m aware.”

“Then why have you done it? Why have you returned?”

“Let’s not play stupid, shall we?” The Darkling folded his hands behind his back and cocked his head. “I’m here to see you kneel. Refuse, and this ends in bloodshed.”

Nikolai shook his head, the brilliant gears in his mind whirling. “I’m⎯”

“Bend your knee. Or we will cut your men down.” The Darkling moved closer, impatient. As if in warning, a few _nichevo'ya_ swirled up from the shadows on the ground.

At Nikolai’s feet was an impossible choice: Step down and spare your men, or refuse and maintain your honor and legacy at the cost of those most loyal to you. In the end, it wasn’t even a decision. Yet he still stood, hesitating to let go. It had been a humiliatingly easy defeat.

But the Darkling was supposed to be dead.

How did you prepare for, plan for an attack by a dead man?

Everyone watched, deathly still. My heart fluttered with nerves. Without speaking, Nikolai turned to look at his men, and I imagined horribly that he was saying goodbye. From his side, Zoya took his hand. She nodded at him. He nodded back. The moment stretched for a second further, then moving faster than a flash of lightning, she whipped around and sent a gust of wind straight for the Darkling’s men. “Dlya Ravka!” She screamed. _For Ravka._

Everyone behind her screamed in suite, then surged forward. My hands flew to my mouth as I watched them come together, Grisha against Grisha, soldier against soldier. Nikolai had at least triple the Darkling’s numbers, but I knew that as long as he was protected, the Darkling could single-handedly raze them all down.

Zoya ran for him, but another Squaller blasted her out of the way. She came up spitting and sent them into a tree. I searched for Nikolai in the chaos, but a boom and a sudden wave of darkness blocked my view. At least two dozen people were felled by the first slash of shadow, and a handful more by the second. I rushed forward. Remembering his orders, Ruslan wrapped his arms tightly around my waist and held me to his chest. “Let me go!” I elbowed him. “Let me _go!”_

“No,” he said. “We’re staying right here.” I gave out a cry of frustration and tried to kick his knees in, to no avail. Another boom sounded, and this time screaming followed.

Ruslan and I watched as people on both sides dropped. Genya, Tolya, and Tamar were nowhere to be found, but I got a terrible, sickening feeling when I spied a man with a mass of brown hair in a pool of his own blood. 

“Oh saints,” I gasped, tears finally forming. Ruslan’s hand went back over my mouth, but I knew he could hear me calling anyways, “David, _David_ , please, no.” 

His kefta was more crimson than purple. It was the only feature of his that I could see from here, besides his hair. Why did he put himself in the fight? What was he thinking?

Letting myself go limp, I gave up my struggle, and turned my reddening eyes to the sky. David and Genya were _married_. Last time I had talked to her, she had wanted a _baby._ Everything was wrong. Everything was so wrong. 

It seemed like hours later that Ruslan was shaking me. Maybe somehow I had fallen asleep. 

“It’s over,” he said. “Your old king is in chains.” He hauled me back to the trapdoor and kicked it open. “Come on now, go down. It’s over.” I dropped through the hole and landed on my feet. I had known this whole time that it would be fast, easy. But now it was over.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It took way longer than I thought to edit. I was distracted by the Grisha Trilogy TVTropes page. It's so fun to look through 0-0


	9. nine

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'M BACK.  
> Blah blah this is a first draft, but it’s better than nothing, etc etc. If you see any issues in consistency or typos or the like, don't be afraid to point it out! that stuff irks me :)  
> Thank you so much to anyone who has commented, kudosed, or even just read this fic in the time I’ve been away. You’re all amazing.

Dust motes circled over my head. Soft, and small, and backlit by an orange glow from the sconces on the wall. Sitting up in bed, I ran my hand over the sheets.

Silk.

Expensive.

The morning before came to me like a running child spilling candies. Memories, one after the other, plopped into recollection. They left a bitter taste in my mouth.

Blinking, I found myself dragged through the courtyard and down the hall once again, past alarmed servants, and brought to a waiting guest room. The plush carpets and hanging chandeliers of the Grand Palace swept by in the haze of my furious kicking and shouting. Ruslan had hit me.

I remembered now, and felt my face. There wasn't a mark from what I could tell, or any kind of bruise. He had probably thought he was doing it for my own good. He wouldn't have been stupid enough to hit me otherwise. Not with the Darkling as his commander. Not when I was under his protection.

The room had been tidy when I was pushed inside, filled with custom furniture and decked in baubles meant to amuse. A four poster bed took up one wall. Decorative bookshelves lined another. There were no windows, only gaslit sconces along the walls filled with soft firelight.

I was angry about the lack of windows. I remembered that too, and how I had picked up the expensive vase at the foot of the bed and thrown it in frustration.

Now it was shattered like a million little stars on the floor of the chamber. It still glittered  just as it did hours ago, but unlike then, I felt disconnected from the scene around me. Then, I was a steaming, boiling vat of rage. My imprisonment was a living, breathing, monster - bearing down on me at every glance I took at the locked door, or every time I searched over the walls and found no glass pane door to the outside world.

When fuming and pacing proved to be no help, and a hole was threatening to be worn in the delicate rug in front of the fireplace, I abandoned the act and began turning over the room. There was a jewelry box on the vanity, which I dug through then promptly shoved off into a mess of chains and pearls. Somehow, the mirror ended up broken. I searched under the bed and made a mess of the bath chamber. Careful to avoid the glass on the floor, I felt the wall for any hint of a secret passage. There was no place in this confinement left untouched. Despite my ardor the bed was still intact, and after a bout of rageful hair pulling I fell on it and did not get up.

Now, coming back to myself, I only felt tired. The fury that had beat so faithfully through me hours before had washed out and away; a boat untethered from the dock. I had no doubt it would return. Soon. But for now it was gone.

I rubbed the sleep from my eyes and reran my hands over the fabric under my legs. There was no telling how long I had been out. The journey to Os Alta had been an exhausting one. Even though Healers had made sure I didn't develop sores, I still felt stiff and worn.

Had the Darkling slept?

He would need to, wouldn't he, after expending himself like he had?

Despite traveling alongside him for over a week, I never saw him close his eyes to rest. He was always awake, watching and commanding.

I slipped my feet onto the floor⎯ cold, despite the fireplace⎯ and made my way to the oak door. Ruslan was outside, I knew for a fact, so I knocked once and called out his name.

There was no reply, but the gold lock clicked and the doorknob turned.

"Your breakfast will be here shortly," he said, popping his head through the crack. He looked down at me blankly. "As well as new clothes."

"I want to see him."

A swallow, and his adam's apple bobbed. He shook his head slowly, but with meaning, like I was without any sense.

"He's busy. Orders are to keep you here for now."

Ruslan didn't listen to my protests as he closed the door. I scowled, knocked again, then spun back to face the bed when he didn’t reply. In a flash of desperation, I attempted to call the Cut to my fingers. Nothing happened. No rushing warmth, no wave of euphoric power. Frustrated tears pricked at my eyes. I let my hands fall back to my sides and stood in silence, staring at the mess around me. With a stab of guilt I realized the palace staff would have to clean it all up. 

But that didn’t matter in the grand scheme of things. I needed to ask if David was okay, even though I knew he wasn’t. I needed to find out who was hurt, and who was still alive. Pacing, again, I pulled at the loose threads in my sleeves until there were none left. I paused to retrieve the miniature version of myself from my pockets, then placed it on the desk. Afterwards, I went back to pacing.

As promised, maids came with new clothes, _black_ clothes, and even though I tried to comfort myself with the notion that I had no choice but to wear them, I still felt like a traitor. Before they let me change, they undressed me and went to draw a bath. I followed as they scampered through the bathroom doorway. The ceiling was high and softly shadowed, and the paint was a dusty autumn brown. A large bathtub was inlaid into the floor. Shivering, I stood alone, rubbing the gooseflesh from my skin. One maid looked up from where she kneeled at the tub and gestured with a kind hand for me to approach.

Nude, cold, and with a twinge of self-consciousness, I stepped over the glossy granite floors. My time in the First Army desensitized me to nakedness. Even so, old insecurities lingered like scar tissue, leaving me feeling like a drab gray stain. Careful not to slip, I made my way down the little stone steps. Warm water chased up my ankles and tickled my thighs, burning a little when I sunk in completely. It smelt of vanilla, of pastries with crusty sugar coatings. And Mal. 

Mal and I baking at Keramzin, Mal and I sharing sweet buns while on the run. Powdered sugar lingered on his nose, and I laughed and brushed it off. Submerging my face in the fragrance, I smiled. Liquid heat filled my ears. 

A soft grip pulled me back up and out of my head. Armed with a stalwart sense of determination, the women came at my hair with soaps and combs and expensive looking cloths. Their hands were quick and rough against my skin, but efficient at washing the grime away. By the time they were done, my skin was pink and raw like a plucked chicken. I took another moment for myself, just soak in the opulence of the room, before obligingly rubbing the suds from my arms. As I stepped out, water ran down my body in grey rivulets. 

They all left, trickling from the bathing room, except for one. “Come on child,” she said, holding out a towel. I dried myself as she pulled out a clean black shirt and set of trousers. She unfolded them neatly, glancing ever so often in my direction. I held the wet fabric awkwardly against my chest as I waited for her to finish. 

“Thank you,” I said quietly. 

She harrumphed with raised brows. “There’s no need to thank me. Here,” she offered me the clothes, _not_ attempting to dress me, thank the saints. “My name is Mavra. We’ll be seeing a bit of each other, I expect.” She winked, her dark crows feet crinkling. The corners of my mouth lifted in a weak but genuine smile. 

“Get yourself dressed,” she said. I nodded, and she left the room.

⎯⎯⎯

When I emerged, Mavra was rifling through the drawers of the vanity, muttering to herself about pins and combs. “Ah!” She exclaimed when she saw me. “Someone cleans up nice, doesn’t she?” Grabbing my hands, she led me to the spot she was standing a moment before. When I caught a glimpse of myself in the broken vanity mirror, I wanted to crawl out of my body. Shame pulsed under my skin like blood. Oblivious, she put her hands and my shoulders and pushed me down. “Sit down,” she said, “sit.” I complied, and she patted my head. 

I sat completely still as she brushed the tangles from my hair. Once upon a time, Genya would have done this, but those days were long passed. A hollow ache started in my chest at the thought of her. 

The minutes went by peacefully. Mavra hummed as she braided my hair back, pinning certain locks to the side and pulling others free around my face. She paused occasionally to ask me questions. When the topic of the Darkling came up, I met her eyes in our distorted reflection.

“Why did you stay here?” I asked. “Everyone fears the Darkling. Why did you stay to serve him?”

She weaved the last of my hair together and tied it back. “We all do what we must, Alina, dear.” Letting out a sad sigh, she stroked my cheek with her fingers. “And a lot of us must bring money home to our families.”

⎯⎯⎯

After we swept up the sharp objects from the floor, she left with the promise to return later. Breakfast was left at a desk in the corner: pickled herring, bread rolls, and fruit. I picked at the fresh produce with reluctance. I wasn’t hungry. Still, the Darkling would know if I didn’t eat, and the last thing I needed was more protective supervision.

Bored and lonely, I flipped through the stack of novels on the desk. Picking up the largest one, I settled into the chair behind me and waited. 

And waited.

At what must have been dinner time, the door creaked open and Ruslan stepped inside. I shot to my feet, book in my lap forgotten.

“I am to bring you this,” he murmured. In his outstretched hand was an envelope. Freshly stamped, with crisp corners. I eyed him as he stepped toward me. When he was close enough for me to reach, I retrieved it cautiously from between his fingers and peered up at him. His face was drawn, and the smooth, dark skin around his lips looked tight. 

“Did he say when we would speak?”

Ruslan shook his head once. Nodding in acquiescence, I dropped my attention back to the envelope.

“Tell him I want to talk. Now.”

I didn’t quite know what I would say, but I knew I could figure it out. Anything was better than sitting in this room, useless.

Ruslan made an annoyed grunt but didn’t argue. I watched the shadow of his boots on the floor as he turned and left, and just as he reached for the knob, I looked up. Our eyes locked. The door clicked closed. Letting the glare fall from my face, I walked to the fire and inspected the stamp. It was the Lantsov seal. The wax was the rich blue of Nikolai’s house, and I thought quickly, desperately, that somehow someone had snuck me information. Tearing the letter out, I held it above the light of the flames and scanned over its elegant lettering. A cry of rage escaped me.

It was written by the Darkling. I reread it, cursed, then read it again, crinkling the corners in a tightfisted grip. 

With simple, clean handwriting he invited the nations surrounding Ravka to witness the end of the _‘old dynasty.’_ The subtext was biting - it wasn’t a real request, it was a threat, veiled thinly by words of diplomacy and reason. I had no doubt ambassadors from all over would show. But for what? What were they to witness? I threw the letter into the fireplace and bit my knuckles.

He was taunting me. Flouncing his victory in my face while refusing my audience, showing me just how beautifully he had me trapped. It was clever of him. Very clever. He didn’t even need to be near me to twist the knife in my side.

Heat bubbled up from a crevice deep in my chest, in the core of my very being, but as I paused to ease it out, the warmth fizzled away into nothingness. It was all too much. Rage, fear, anger, loneliness. Together they were asphyxiating. I understood then why he had forced his emotions into the deep, dark fissures of his heart and locked them there. Lifetimes of this would drive anyone insane. 

Ruslan brought me my dinner about an hour later, but I didn’t touch it. I laid in bed and tossed flashes of light at the ceiling, one after the other, a silent, solemn mantra.

⎯⎯⎯

The week went by in a slow, repetitive fog. Every day I woke and requested to see the Darkling, and every day I was refused. Mavra became a gentle buzzing presence in my rooms, cleaning and gossiping, starting my baths and doing my hair. I welcomed the distraction she brought. The first time I summoned in front of her, she froze, placing a hand to her heart. 

“They say you are a saint,” she said after a pause. 

It caught me off guard. For a moment, I didn’t know what to say. The light above us shuttered gently, flickering like the many crystals in a chandelier. Weariness settled over me. Of course she would assume things. They usually did. Feeling my teeth with my tongue, slowly, I turned my attention to her.

“They do.”

Her wide brown eyes traveled from the light above our heads to my face. “And what have you to say to that?”

Guardedly, I folded my arms against my chest. “I am a girl,” I murmured. “I only do what I must. That is how it is; you said so yourself.”

Mavra had no reply to that. With only a hum and a furrowed brow, she turned away from me and went back to work.

⎯⎯⎯

“Wake up,” Mavra said. “Alina.”

I rolled over and peered at her through the tangle of sheets at my head. Back at the cabin I would’ve been up by now, but this was not the cabin. Stretching, I popped my back. It was the morning of day seven. Like every time she woke me, Mavra held a breakfast platter in her hands, but something was off about the way she was looking down at my sprawl on the bed.

“What is it?” I sat up. She placed the tray on the nightstand and wrung her callused hands. 

“I’ve been told to tell you that ‘today is the day.’ You’ve been sent something different to wear too, but I don’t know…” She dragged her gaze to the side, downcast, like there was more she couldn’t say. An icy tremor stole its way up my spine.

“Mavra,” I said carefully, “what else can you tell me?” 

“Nothing. But we need to get you dressed quickly.”

I nearly fell on my face while scrambling to stand. My eyes cut to Mavra, who was still messing with her hands. Draped on the seat of the vanity was a mass of thick black fabric. “Is that⎯?” 

“Yes.” 

I walked up to it carefully. Running my fingers down the hem, I let out a small, peculiar sound. Despite my anger, despite the cloud of grayness that hung over my mind and kept me from hysteria, I began to tremble.

“Let me help you dear,” she called from behind me. I let her pull me away. She picked up the bundle and laid it out on the bed. I stepped out of my sleeping clothes and donned a black shirt and fitted trousers, then moved to stand beside her. We both stared down at the object before us.

It was a kefta. Beautiful, Fabrikator crafted, and black, with gold stitching and a familiar eclipsed sun embroidered over the heart. I knew that he would make me wear something like this. I just didn’t realize that it would sting so much. Without much more thought, I slipped it on, and although it looked heavy, it actually sat lightly over my frame. The sleeves fit snuggly to my arms, but I could still lift them easily over my head. Mavra watched me stretch with a faint frown twisting her mouth.

When I sat down in front of the mirror, she began her daily routine of braiding. I stopped her and shook my head.

“I’d like it down, I think.”

She pursed her lips. Instead of twisting and folding the hair into loops, Mavra pulled the strands around my face back and pinned them behind my head. A few were pulled free to frame my jaw, but the majority of my hair fell unbound over my back and shoulders.

“Were you born with hair this white?” she asked absently. 

My hands shook where they rested in front of me, so I pulled them into my lap. “No.”

She made a noncommittal noise and adjusted the last gold pin. “There,” she said, “beautiful. Would you like any cosmetics?”

I laughed despite myself. “No.” My eye might have given a nervous twitch, but I was too focused on leveling my breathing to be sure. Mavra looked at me in the mirror and I looked at her back. Gently, one of her hands came to rest on my shoulder.

“I don’t quite understand what’s going on. But whatever it is you must do, you can do it.”

“We do what we must,” I murmured.

“We do what we must,” she agreed. My eyes stung. Suddenly, I was angry, very angry, and it threatened to gurgle up and spill over the confines of my resolve. Swallowing thickly, I looked away.

“Thank you,” I said, and her aging fingers gave the skin beside my collarbone a reassuring squeeze.

Her eyes shone. “Bah! Look at yourself, all young and beautiful. I remember those days. I had suitors lining up for miles you know, all just to get a glimpse at me.”

I gave her a polite smile. Never would I describe myself as beautiful. After Mavra's work, my face was pale, framed with paler hair that hung wavy and limp over my shoulders. There were grey shadows swiped under my eyes and cheekbones, and with my dark irises, I was the ethereal picture of monochrome. The only true shock of color was the red rims of my eyes. 

It was fitting. 

They should know. They should know where I stand. That even a golden cage is a cage, that my hands are tied behind my back with tight, shadowy rope.

My attention wandered hollowly to the fabric hanging over my shoulders. The kefta itself was a twin of the Darkling’s. Only mine was feminine, and where his was trimmed and buttoned in silver, mine was gold. It must have been kept in his closets, because it had a touch of his scent. Something darker, something softer and cold, like a whiff of the winter night itself.

How long had he been planning this? Knowing him, probably since I defeated him on the Shadow Fold. With every passing minute, every fleeting, flittering thought that went through my mind, I sensed the approach of something terrible. Like that last day on the Fold, there was an uneasy feeling simmering between my bones and tendons; a steady drip dropping of dread into my blood, slow as treacle. 

I wasn’t the only one who felt this tension. Mavra’s rigid posture gave her away, a defense mechanism if I ever saw one. Our reflected gazes met again, and she gave my shoulder a final squeeze. The feeling echoed as she went away, and into the hall. It wasn’t another minute when the doorknob turned again. 

I didn’t even have to glance up to know who it was this time. I could feel the weight of his stare on me like a brand, moving up and down over the kefta, onto the drawn lines of my face. “You’ve refused to see me,” I remarked.

There was no sound. The Darkling didn’t move from the doorway. “I’ve been occupied.”

I made a snort that Baghra would have been proud of. Standing, yet still not turning to give him my full attention, I folded my hands behind my back. They were shaking terribly. “What’s happening today?”

“You already know the answer to that.”

“I want you to tell me.”

“The last Lantsov will die,” he stated, shutting the door. From the corner of my eye, I made sure he didn’t lock it. “The Grisha Triumvirate will be ended. The Apparat too, but I doubt that bothers you so.”

I coughed on a bitter laugh. It rattled all through my chest, choking me up and worsening my trembling. 

"The Grisha Triumvirate… that’s Genya, Zoya, David. You would kill them?” It was a stupid question. Of course he would. He would blind his mother. He would burn down the world.

Yet he humored me with a response anyways, shifting subtly forward,“They have forced my hand, Alina. I gave them ample opportunity to surrender-”

 _“Knowing full well they wouldn’t!”_ I couldn’t help but shout, or to whip around and point my finger. “And now they’re all to be dead, because of _you_ and your _skewed_ sense of justice.”

"David is already dead. It’s a tragic loss, to lose such a capable mind. But they all die in the end, Alina. You’ll come to realize that it doesn’t matter, not as much as you think it does."

“It _does_ matter.” In disgust, in hurt, I looked away from him and to the crackling fire. The pain of David’s loss lanced through me like a solar flare. The feeling was raw, a puckering wound, and I knew like the vulture he was, the Darkling would smell blood and rip in. As if it was his scripted part in a play, he moved closer to me. I acted as if he were not there at all.

“Alina.”

I swallowed. 

“Alina,” he repeated. His tone morphed, slow patience lowering into something sultry. There seemed to be a promise in the way he said my name: reverent, sanctified, and curling with dark heat. What did he see in me that made him switch gears like this? 

The Darkling came to stand behind me, his fingers whispering over my hips. I made to jerk away, but they dug in firm. “Move,” he breathed into my hair, “and I swear your tracker dies like the rest of them.” 

 _Oh._ I understood then. It was a threat, this seduction, and it froze me in place. Gently, the rest of his arms came to rest around my waist, and his lips brushed against my neck. What did it mean, that we both knew this was fake? That it was still happening anyways? Parts of a play, indeed.

His hot breath fanned over my skin, and my every defiant thought blew away. It wasn’t fair that even his smallest touches could make me so breathless, could cause my heart to pound against my chest like a running animal. He chuckled darkly against my neck. “Little saint,” he said, his mouth whispering over my shoulder. The tip of his nose hit my throat and I shivered; it was as if he was trying to breathe me in, inhale my essence. I couldn’t hide the sound that escaped me. My eyes were focused on the mantle above the fireplace, but I wasn’t seeing anything. All of my attention went to the hum he made, vibrating through my back and down the tips of my fingers. 

I knew that there was a purpose to this. I knew that it was all just another display of superiority, that he was trying to get under my skin and throw me off balance. But _knowing_ all of that didn’t stop the shaking of my hands and the floundering of my heartbeat.

He shifted away. Now that his mouth was gone from my skin, I wanted to hit him. So, half mad from adrenaline, I did.

It was a slap. It wasn’t even a hard slap, but it was enough to catch his jaw and turn his head, enough to flush the skin that had skimmed my fingers. “ _Never,”_ I enunciated, still shaking, “touch me like that again. Not without my consent. Never.” 

A stony silence hung over us, punctured by my slightly ragged intakes of breath. Agonizingly slowly, he turned his face back to me. Danger crowded in. I knew my mistake almost immediately: being bold to the point of defiance was never the way to win with him. His language was that of subtlety, scrutiny, and hidden feelings. At least it was, usually. Right now he stared down at me like he wanted to eat me alive. His gloved fingers, where they had ghosted over my waist, pressed down with a bruising force.

For a moment I feared that he _would_ touch me like that again - or kiss me, even, long and deep - just to prove that he could. Yet he didn’t. He only leaned into me, so close I could see the varying shades of grey in his eyes, and took my chin with one gentle hand. “When we leave, no matter what happens out there, you will not say a word,” he murmured. His forehead brushed against mine. “If you decide to disobey, I will have Oretsev hung from the walls surrounding this palace.” My eyes burned with angry tears. Instead of biting back, I swallowed. 

“Do you understand?” He asked. So mellow, so soft. Underneath his hand my face felt like the bones of a fragile bird. This was the worst kind of threat. He knew he didn’t have to be loud, didn’t have to be common. I would bend to his will no matter what. 

I couldn’t speak, so I nodded in the hope that he could feel the hatred radiate from my pores instead. He let go of me. Stepped back. “Good.” There was nothing kind about the way he looked at me then. “Wipe your face. We leave in five minutes.”

He walked to the door, his hand pausing on the handle. Before he could leave again, I started forward. "You’re cruel,” I spat thickly.

His jaw worked. Even at this angle, I could see it. “I am not cruel. Consider it a mercy that I don’t make you smile.”

And then he was gone, and I was left alone to collect myself. I wanted to slit his throat like he slit the stag’s; I wanted to feel the warm run of his blood in my palms; I wanted to see the light leave his eyes.

But that wouldn't be happening any time soon. I needed to pull myself together. Swallowing, I pressed my palms to the wetness on my lashes and did just that. I had a long time to make him pay. I only hoped that by the end of all of this, I still wanted to.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have had the scene with them at the fire written since, I don’t know, July? It was one of my first ideas for this fic. You know those handful of scenes that you build the plot around? Yeah. I have so many things planned for this story.. And even though it’s slow going, we’ve just only gotten started
> 
> (Alina hitting Aleks and the "burn down the world" line is straight from I Don’t Even Know by Ahab2631, aka my grisha senpai xD. If you haven’t read it, you need to. Their characterization is otherworldly)


	10. ten

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ((Shoutout to AngstyWriter for the research and patience and super duper awesome feedback))
> 
> Short chapter. I am sorry. *dodges flying tomatoes*

Silence cloaked the bottom floor of the Grand Palace, stifling and charged, like the air before a summer storm. Early morning light painted strips of the walls gold. The palace sat still, an animal in waiting.

Ruslan’s instructions were to take me and wait in the main foyer. So there we stood, among the marble and velvet and thick, dusty quiet, and the minutes dragged along like hours. It was the worst kind of anticipation. I felt it flutter in my fingers and my lungs, and even if he gave no outward sign of distress, I could see from Ruslan’s rigid posture that the tension got to him too.

A sound came from down the hall. Shouting and crashing—and the distinctly familiar voice of one distraught Nikolai Lantsov.

I took off before Ruslan could catch me, tearing past gilded tapestries and family portraits toward the source of the commotion. The unfamiliar weight of the kefta on my back made my steps uncertain, less nimble. I caught the corner of a wall and used the momentum to pivot down another corridor before he could grab me by the hair. 

Once around the bend I came to a halt. Nikolai stood steps away, disheveled, and being tugged along by three surly Corporalki. Ruslan brushed a warning hand over my shoulder, but I ignored him and charged straight on.

“Nikolai, _Nikolai,_ ” I said, unable to keep from running my hands over his face. The guards behind him barked at me and started pulling him away, but I held fast to his sleeves. I wished I could hide away my fear. That I could somehow make this easier for him.

“Tears?” He asked. “For me?” 

A shuddering breath worked its way up my chest. There was a moment of connection there between us, a poignant understanding. It shattered as he was ripped away. I knotted my fingers through my hair and watched him struggle against the men hauling him back. He had no hope for escape. He was stalling to get a last look at me.

“Tell me,” I blurted, “Our friends? Are they alright?”

“He has Zoya. I had everyone else clear out the students. I—OW—I don’t know where they—”

He was cut off by a jab to the stomach. I watched, horrified, as he was shoved through a doorway. The last thing I saw before the door closed was Nikolai’s head snapping up, bright hazel eyes locking on my own.

“Fight it!” I shouted. “Fight them!”

But he was gone and could not hear me, and the sound of my desperate shouting echoed through the empty hall. Ruslan and I stood in silence. He watched me from the corner of his eyes, and I stood and stared at that now closed doorway. I lifted my palms to my eyes and squeezed until I saw red.

The door opened again less than a minute later, but instead of Nikolai or an oprichnik it was the Darkling who stepped out. He lifted his brows at the sight of us. 

“You really cannot follow directions, can you?”

My teeth clicked together. I didn’t bother with a retort.

“Come,” he said. He pushed the door farther open and gestured for me to enter. Inside was a little parlor, fit with plump settees and a pianoforte—an antechamber, I realized, once he stalked toward another doorway in the back and repeated the motion. 

I hesitated in the middle room. He didn’t wait for me. That last old, heavy door slipped open to spill daylight into the candlelit chamber, and I made the decision to follow him. A decision, like I truly had a choice.

Outside was a courtyard I had never seen before. Tall fir trees circled a wide cobblestone pavilion, casting shadows and leafy debris onto the ground. A nipping chill remained from the night before. It was only weeks from the winter solstice celebrations, and it was surreal to be here again, in almost the same company. The memory of the twinkling lights of the fete was alive in my mind, with the ghost of David, and unscarred Genya. They scattered in the harsh wind against my face. 

A gathering of fifty or so people collected at the fringes of the stone tiling. There were officials from many different countries in the crowd, skins tones and uniforms of all shades. This wasn’t to be a civilian event, then. 

Uneasy sweat collected in my palms and down my spine. I felt clammy, cold and hot, like the rush before a performance, but infinitely worse. The attention of the crowd only amplified the effect. There was no forgetting why we were here.

In the center of the courtyard kneeled Zoya, Nikolai, and the Apparat. No Genya. I sent a quick prayer to the saints hoping that she made it out alive. As I walked out of the shade and toward the congregation, the three of them looked up, first to me, then to the Darkling moving ahead. 

Nikolai’s face set. The light of dawn dancing through the square was bright, and in it he was different somehow, like I was seeing him for the first time. Prince, then privateer, then king. Now kneeling. Yet even on the ground he wore his dignity like a fine cloak, bore it in a gentle tilt of head and strong set of shoulders. I had always been jealous of the little dimple above the right corner of his mouth, the one I could almost see if I squinted.

And his hair: wheat, like the thin brittle stalks that grew near Keramzin in the summer, like all of the colors of the sun boiled down and strung out into thread. The soft morning glow spilled over his face, into his eyes. 

Beside him sat the Apparat, head lowered in prayer. I wasn’t angry to see him here. But the sight of Zoya with her beautiful face dirtied stirred something in me. A sense of wrongness, a sense of injustice. Because strong, hardened Zoya was not supposed to be kneeling in the dirt, and her arms were not supposed to be bound behind her back. There shouldn’t have been a man behind her with his hands on her shoulders, making sure she stayed still.

The feeling grew and grew until I had to look away. But I owed it to them to watch. I took a trembling breath and looked back.

Unsure of what to do with my hands, I twined them behind my back. From my periphery I saw the Darkling mirror the motion. Disgusted, I ripped my arms apart and bunched them into my kefta. The sudden urge to scream became overwhelming. 

It was odd, really, how one could stand still and quiet while their mind did the exact opposite.

The Darkling walked forward to claim the stage. He stood straight and tall, face severe, hands folded behind his back. One of those hands went up, and silence fell like a blanket. In a way, this was a performance — a macabre demonstration, just like the slaughter of Novokribirsk. 

“Men of Ravka. Men of Shu Han. Men of Kerch. Men of Novyi Zem." He let his words hang, let the unease grow. 

“By appearing today, you recognize the end of the Lantsov dynasty on the behalf of your leaders. I have named more terms in my correspondence with them—” he swept a harsh eye over the crowd— “and I will repeat them here: You are to immediately hand over your Grisha. You are to hand over your seat of power. Don’t, and I will turn your lands to shadow and your men to volcra.”

There was no sound but the wind through the courtyard. “Besides your compliance, there is one more thing I need from this gathering,” he said. “Nikolai Lantsov, son of Alexander Lantsov III, is guilty of opposition to the new order. My verdict is death.”

“And the saint?” Called a lone man from the crowd. “What is her verdict?”

I blanched. The heavy weight of the Darkling’s attention rested on me. Rooted to the ground, I stared straight at Nikolai. He nodded imperceptibly, eyes softening at the edges.

I cleared my throat and did my best to ignore the crawling eyes of the crowd.

“Guilty.”

Zoya shouted her anger and made as if to stand, but was forced back down by the hands on her shoulders. “Fight him,” she hissed at me, still struggling, “you fight him, and you avenge us, and all those he’s wronged, do you hear me Starkov?”

The Darkling stepped backwards toward me and wrapped his hand over mine in a sour, bloated show of unity. Zoya spat at the ground at his feet.

My blood was static. Energy raged beneath the surface of my skin, and I felt nothing, nothing at all but that deafening buzz and the iron grip of the Darkling’s gloved fingers around my wrist. He was so, so smug. I would have felt it even without our tether.

Zoya tossed her head back into the gut of the man pressing her down. He stumbled back, then kicked her to the ground as she began to get to her feet. The crowd stirred, stepping back to avoid accidental interference. I fought to stay still. Things were happening too fast.

“Her first,” the Darkling said to Heartrender beside him.

At that, Nikolai jerked. He moved so that he was in front of Zoya, giving her time to pull herself from the ground. “ _No._ You want me first, don’t you? End this.”

“No jokes, sobachka? Have you nothing else to say?” 

“I have.” Despite her heaving chest, Zoya’s voice rang clear through the crowd. “My cousin,” she called out. “My aunt. David Kostyk. Harshaw Mullen. Sergei Beznikov. Marie Smirnova. Nikolai L—”

The Darkling’s mouth tightened. “Enough.”

I felt a million miles away, among the light particles in the trees above us.

“Nikolai Lantsov!” She shouted. “Zoya Nazyalensky!”

 _“Now,_ ” demanded the Darkling, gesturing his impatience. Ruslan nodded. He squared his shoulders then raised his hand, but not before Zoya could interject one last time:

“And this,” she said: “Go to hell.”

Ruslan clenched his fist. Zoya fell to the ground, and Nikolai shoved past the Apparat to get to her. The tittering of the crowd grew to an excited hum.

Ruslan made another motion. The Apparat gave me a leery, deliberate look, then collapsed onto his side, that glassy stare frozen in eternal place.

Nikolai went last. Understanding what was coming, he whipped his head to me, and I was too far out of myself to interpret the expression for what it was—resignation, fear, or acceptance? What was he thinking in his final moments? It had to mean something, that he looked to me. Maybe it was an apology. Maybe it meant nothing. I would never know, and it would come to haunt me. Our eyes were still locked when he slumped over. 

The sun shone down on the square, through Nikolai’s hair, and over Zoya’s still, beautiful face. The gathering around us dissolved, and I stood alone.


	11. eleven

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Another super fucking short chapter?? I really did not think it would be so small. The next one is looking to be longer!

It was Yuri who brought me back to my room.    

From the cautious set of his fingers in the crook of my arm and the furtive glances cast my way, he likely expected me to explode. I didn’t. I put one foot in front of the other and I walked, one step, two step, all the way through the hall. 

And when I got to my room, I didn’t explode either. I braced both of my hands on the desk and let my head fall, counting my breaths, because that's what we did in the army to decompress. I opened myself to my feelings. Like I was blind in the dark, I scrambled to find something, anything, to release. 

There was nothing. 

Just... nothing.

My nails scraped over the desk varnish. I counted my breaths again, and again, and again, and kept digging for a feeling that wasn’t surfacing. The further I clawed the more I shook. A quiet frenzy built in my chest. No precise emotion tethered me, so I was adrift in the sea of all of them. Lost. 

I beat my fist into the desk and shoved all of the books to the floor. The horror of what I felt was there, but muted, like I was seeing it through a clouded glass window. The shaking in my hands spread up my arms and into my lungs. I stepped back until I hit the foot of the bed, raking my fingers through my hair and upsetting the pins, then fell to my knees in the mess. 

I shook and shook and shook. I wrapped my arms around my knees and rested my chin on them. When my back began to ache, I let myself lean against the bed. I felt lost. Lost. There would be no shield for me, no crutch. No support. No mercy.

Day deepened to dusk. I did not tally the hours, but felt them pass, and when the Darkling entered the room and paused at me on the floor, I didn’t so much as look at him.

He took a seat at the chair by the vanity and lounged back, watching me as I did nothing.

“I know why you’re here,” I said, monotone. “It hasn’t even been a day _._ Don’t disrespect me by asking.”  

His face was carefully still, his head tilted to the barest degree. “Is that so?”

Before - and distantly, it struck me as odd that there was a before - I would’ve met his shrewdness with disregard. But I was too wounded, too raw to shrug him off right now. The memory of Nikolai’s dying face left me with what might have been anger; a deep, churning feeling that I knew would one day boil over and erupt. 

The Darkling leaned forward to rest his elbows on his knees. I raised my face, but made no further attempt to speak. Those clear eyes cut into me. “It is unbelievable how shortsighted you are,” he said. “Would you rather stay here, in your rooms forever, powerless? Or would you rather have a crown.”

The light of the Cut was _there_ , in my palms but just beyond reach, itching to be unleashed. “We both know that’s the last thing I want.”

“It’s only a piece of paper. A political alliance,” he smiled dryly to himself. “Marriage is the word that common folk would understand.”

I continued to stare at him. Could he sense the buzzing of my fingers, the heat building beneath the skin? I felt flighty, uninhibited. Like I was capable of anything. Nothing seemed quite real.

_Marriage._

Another bit of absurdity in a world without Nikolai, Zoya, and David; a word reserved for Mal, and only Mal, and never _him._

I stared blankly down at my hands. It was either this or isolation in confined quarters. Pick one poison and hope it kills you slower than the other. My brows drew together in apprehension.

The Darkling rose and came to stand before me. He went down on one knee and reached out with a hand, running two fingers under my chin so that I would look him back in the face. 

"I have been unbearably patient with you,” he murmured. “You've had your weeks to dawdle, and now that time is up. I’m done waiting."

Bitterness overwashed me, and I felt heavy with it. “So I am a spoil, then. A trophy for your hard work.” 

That did not amuse him. His mouth narrowed into a thin line, and his lashes lowered to scrape his cheekbones. “Tell me,” he spoke gently, “are you being burned, sold, or dissected?” I shrank away, but he took hold of my jaw and continued, unforgiving. “The history of the Grisha is wrought with suffering. A legacy of slaves and refugees and whores. Are you any of those things?”

Our faces were so close that I could feel the soft fan of his breath. My attention jumped between his mouth and his eyes, and I trembled, from rage and revulsion at his proximity and a lot of other things I was not in the right place to identify.

"I have terms," I said unsteadily.

"And they are?"

My teeth worried my lip as I considered. “No consummation. I know how royal marriages work. I want none of that. And if I am queen, or whatever it is I am to be, there will be no more locking me in rooms and escorting me about. That would be the end of my prison sentence.”

He deliberated, gaze sharp. At last he nodded.

The anger coursing through me was manageable, if only barely. I exhaled through my nose, looking up to the gilded ceiling. “When will I be allowed out?” 

“Within the next few days,” he said, after a lengthy pause. He let his hand fall, but did not stop watching my face.

I blinked. “Days.”

“Yes. I have asked the diplomats to stay for the rest of the week.”

“Why?”

“They will recognize the ceremony.”

I balked, unable to hide my flash of vehement disgust. “I want no _wedding_ with you, performance or not. You can send them right on home. I’ll sign the piece of paper and we can be done with it.”

He canted his head, lips curling into a faint smile. “Sign the paperwork in bed for all I care, they’re not here for a wedding. They’re here for a coronation.”

“But you staged a _coup._ You aren’t even a real king—”

“Your opinion on it is irrelevant. The people need to adjust,” he said. “Taking away tradition will not be a good way to ease them in.”

"A coronation for the sake of upkeeping tradition! Are you sure you don't want to show off your shiny new crown?”

His eyes glittered, faint in the dim lighting of the bedroom. “We’re complex people, Alina. I’m sure we can have multiple reasons for doing things.” 

I fantasized about lunging at him, pushing him down and pressing red and purple bruises into the pale column of his throat. It wouldn’t be enough for his end to be quick. Not after the things he had done. My wrists flexed.

“And what of Nikolai?” I asked. He shrugged.

“The Lantsovs have a crypt. I’ll arrange for him to be buried there.”

A heavy weight settled in my chest. Something farther below even that cried out; it could’ve been injustice, unfairness, bitterness, rage - and it didn’t matter, because it went unheard. “I want to be there,” I bit out. “And I want Zoya to be put to rest with him.”

“Is that one of your stipulations?”

I swallowed and nodded, and he nodded once in return. “You will have your freedom, but you will also have guards,” he said, before he stood. I followed the movement of his boots as he turned and went to the door. He didn’t look back. 

⎯⎯⎯

Before the sun set again, two dresses were delivered to my rooms: the one I was to wear to the coronation, and the one I was to wear to the party afterward. Both black.

He must have gotten a terrible joy out of bludgeoning me with his power. It was if he had to remind me, again and again, that even the color on my back was chosen by his hand. The very definition of petty. But if the point was to hurt me, it was clever - he knew well that a death by a thousand cuts was far more painful than one ministered by a fast, forgiving blow.

⎯⎯⎯

The next morning Mavra dressed me and took me to Nikolai. I made sure he and Zoya were together, and intertwined their hands so that they wouldn’t be alone.

As he was lowered into the ground, he was also standing right beside me. I could almost hear his laugh, as if it was lost in the air between his mouth and my ear. And Zoya’s fire. It burned so hot within me now, so bright. He was the kerosine and she was the flame, and I carried them both on like a torch, like a light in the dark.

I hadn’t seen the Darkling since our arrangement. It was a small relief. There was no telling where he was, if he wasn’t here to taunt me.

⎯⎯⎯

The Darkling stood before the Lazlayon mansion and watched it burn.

It was an impressive feat, truly - the plans that the young king had drawn up were beyond anything he had seen before. 

After the house was but smoldering ash, he spent time exploring the hidden entrances along the shore. It was ingenious. Really. Constructing a lake and building a weapons testing center underneath? 

He could give the boy some credit. 

Walking along one of the tunnels, he gave a signal whistle. The sketches and blueprints and manuals were snatched up by his men. He ran his hand over the barrel of a loaded gun, inspecting the strip of bullets that spilled out its side. The weapons would stay. Yes.

The weapons, the space - it was all very useful, wasn’t it?

⎯⎯⎯

Following the winter wind east, two weeks from the capital by horse, was a group of travelers cloaked in grey. They carried rations and clothes and drink, and over their hearts bore a prized embroidered eclipse. 

Snow capped the trees and brushed the knees of their steeds. It was known that the cold hit hardest in the shadow of the Sikurzoi, but orders were orders.

The travelers stopped not far from their destination and unhooked the shovels from their saddles. Frost made the ground hard, but they broke through and dug a hole. One grabbed a cleaver from his bag and set down the hill. At the bottom of this hill was a little house - decked in icicles and uninhabited, with a front lock that was all frozen up. He hit it until it broke and pushed his way inside.

Nothing had been touched for a while, but a single uncapped bottle of kvas hinted at previous occupation. Well, that and the point of the mission in the first place:

On the floor was the body of a man. A tracker, according to the reports. 

The smell wasn’t too bad, he figured, for three weeks. His nose wrinkled as he nudged it with his boot, but disgust quickly melted into pride. What had he been told when he earned his bite? 

Only the strongest survived.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The past two chapters have felt like repeated, merciless beatings. I promise we’re done with..... that... for a while  
> (I’M SORRY ALINA)


End file.
